


All You and I May Be

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Ficlets, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Prompt Fill, Romance, Short Stories, Smut, short fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 20,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Ficlets and short stories featuring Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. Fluff, smut, humour, a little well-marked angst... and of course, lots and lots of romance.





	1. "The fuck? Who are you?"

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to Avid and to Daynaan, who both suggested I gather all my ficlets up and keep them somewhere safe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has his younger brother's new detective friend summoned to a warehouse, in order to assess his suitability for the role. Greg Lestrade isn't happy about it.

“The fuck?” he demands, looking Mycroft up and down, taking him in with those deep, dark eyes. He’s a great deal more handsome than Sherlock’s usual associates. He’s rather angrier, too, and far less pleased to have been swept up from the street and delivered to Mycroft here in a warehouse in Lambeth.

Not that any of them are ever _pleased._

This one is a detective inspector, Mycroft understands. He's hoping he’ll impress upon Sherlock a newfound respect for the law.

“Who are you?” Lestrade says, eyes flashing, as Mycroft performs a sleek check of his cufflinks. Time to attend to business. The man might be a modern Adonis, but Sherlock's welfare is the priority here and there are facts to be ascertained.

Although he’s unaware, this is the good inspector’s suitability check.

Mycroft already believes he knows how it will run.

Lestrade shan’t take the offer of money - obviously. Only one person ever has. Mycroft had that individual removed immediately and without fuss from his brother’s life. He shan’t permit Sherlock to associate with someone who would take monetary funds at the expense of his security.

It doesn't seem as if his brother’s latest little friend will be frightened of him, either. That much is clear from these first few seconds. Those beguiling brown eyes are brave; the righteous anger suggests a certain nobility and goodness.

In truth, Mycroft likes Lestrade already.

He finds himself hoping, rather keenly, that the inspector shows no signs of romantic interest in Sherlock. He wants his little brother to be happy, of course - but he's entertaining somewhat selfish motivations in that regard.

“Take a seat, Detective Inspector,” he says, gesturing neatly. “I imagine you’ve had a long day at Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade snorts.

“I’m not doing that,” he says. “Tell me who you are, and what the hell you want, or you can wake up tomorrow morning in a cell.”

 _Heaven help me._ The ferocity is delightful. There are many, many more places Mycroft would like to awaken tomorrow morning - chief among them, in this man’s arms.

“How aggressive of you, inspector,” he soothes. “I happen to be a friend of a friend. In fact, I’d rather hoped you and I might simplify that… to merely ‘friends’.”

“Piss off,” Lestrade says.

_Well._

And this is how it begins between then - in a warehouse in Lambeth in the middle of the night, each startling the other to the point of distraction.

Mycroft can't wait to see how it ends.

 


	2. "Actually... I just miss you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is working away in China. Greg misses him desperately.

“How was your day?” he asks softly in Greg’s ear.

He’s six thousand miles away. Greg can feel every single one of them tonight - and it’s still ten days until Mycroft comes home.

He closes his eyes, trying to figure out where to begin. The bedroom is dark all around him; it’s cold and the bed is too big. Where Mycroft is, it’s nearly eight AM - some hotel room somewhere across the world. Greg can’t bear the thought.

“Chewed at by chief super,” he murmurs after a while. He can feel Mycroft listening to him, as close as if he’s lying here - right here next to Greg, in their bed where he belongs. “Expense reports. Apparently he wanted them by yesterday. Court tomorrow - Henderson case… fuck knows how that will go. Weird letter about my phone bill. Think they’ve fucked up my direct debit again. I burned my dinner. Turns out you’re meant to take the pizza off the cardboard tray before you put it in. My nephew’s cough’s gotten worse. Oh, and the car’s making a funny noise.”

As he finishes, Greg becomes aware of a strange sensation - a feeling in his chest like caving, like wet paper folding, like finally giving in - and he realises that none of it matters.

“Actually,” he tells the phone, “I just miss you.”

His chest aches.

“Miss you like mad,” he mumbles.

He hates these times - these nights that nobody can help. He knew these times would come, going in to it. He knew what he was saying _‘I do’_ too.

It still hurts.

“Darling…” Mycroft’s voice cracks a little. “Darling, I - I miss you too.”

“Sorry,” Greg whispers. He reaches a hand up in the darkness to rub at his eyes - heat; a little wetness. He’s tired. He never sleeps properly when Mycroft is away, and the tiredness then makes it all so much worse. “Shouldn’t - bombard you with crap. You’ve got a job to do, and you’re working hard. Don’t mean to guilt-trip you.”

“Perhaps I could be - due some annual leave, when I return…” Mycroft hesitates, his voice gentling. “A week at home, perhaps. Would that help?”

Greg’s heart heaves.

“Yeah,” he manages. He pulls the covers up round his neck. “Yeah, it would…”

“I love you, darling.”

Greg shuts his eyes, tight. “I love you, too.” He hesitates, gazing at the phone. “Come home, will you? Just… get on a plane.”

“I will. Soon.”

Greg swallows. Ten days isn’t soon. “Tell China that I hate them.”

“The entirety of China?”

“Mm. All of them. Every man, woman and child.”

“I shall,” Mycroft says, quietly amused. “I’ll table it for this afternoon’s session. _'My husband wishes it known that he hates you’.”_

“Don’t leave any doubt in the matter, will you?” Greg rubs his wedding ring gently beneath the sheets. “I love you, sweetheart. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too… very deeply, Greg. Very desperately.”

“Will you - stay on the phone 'til I’m asleep, love?” Greg inhales slowly. He’s not changed the pillow cases since Mycroft left. They smell of his husband; they smell like he’s here. “Just want to hear you breathing. Makes me feel less alone.”

“Of course.” Mycroft’s voice is soft, and calm. He’s so much better at this than Greg. He always has been. “Close your eyes, darling… I’m right here. I’ll be home before you know it.”

 


	3. "So... what are we now?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A halloween costume mix-up leads to some creative last-minute improvisation.

Greg knew he should have checked the fucking box.

Looking back, he’d had a weird premonition on the morning the package arrived. _Best check it’s the right ones… biggest night of the year…_ but he’d pushed the thought right out of his head.

It was the same company they’d used last year, after all.

And boy, had they gone down a storm.

Peter Pan and his shadow - Mycroft had been Peter. Greg still got little shivers thinking about his husband’s endless legs in those slinky green tights. Greg himself had spent the entirety of the Halloween Party sneaking after Mycroft, dressed entirely in black, causing chaos and mischief at every opportunity. It had been amazing. They’d taken the top prize without a blink, and Sherlock - dressed grumpily as Batman, with his faithful Robin as ever at his side - had sulked for nearly a week.

Greg had never really noticed Halloween until he’d started dating Mycroft. That first October, he’d discovered the startling penchant for fancy dress. It made sense, though - the suits, the ties, the cufflinks - they were all part of the same urge.

Mycroft liked to be looked at.

And with Greg at his side, his playfulness unlocked, they’d been the talk of Halloween for years now.

They were going for top prize again this year.

Pirates - _proper_ pirates. Greg was looking forward to eyeliner immensely. He’d been practicing the accent in his office while doing paperwork, to the concern of everyone who’d stumbled in. The box had arrived in plenty of time from the costume company, and was placed carefully in their bedroom ahead of the big night.

Then October 31st had rolled around - and as soon as he opened the package, Greg realised that something was wrong.

A huge amount of puffy black netting met his startled gaze. He rummaged through for the order slip, growing yet more concerned as he came across a red-and-black silk bodice. There was another one at the bottom of the box, too. Beneath it was the order slip. Greg tugged it out in concern, searching the printed form for some sign of what the hell was going on.

And then he spotted it - and his chest nearly caved.

“Bollocks…” he groaned under his breath.

They were pirate costumes, alright - and in the right sizes, too. There was just one small problem.

Greg thought quickly, knowing that this news was going to shipwreck his husband’s favourite night of the year. Mycroft was still in the shower. They only had a few hours to go until the party.

There was one thing he could do to lessen the damage.

He was ready by the time he heard the shower turn off.

“Mycroft?” he called through the bathroom door.

“Mm?”

“Got a problem, love.”

There was a slight pause. “A problem?” The door unlocked. Greg braced himself. “What kind of - ”

The door opened. Mycroft appeared, fresh out of the shower and wrapped in a towelling robe. His hair was still wet, his grey eyes bright.

As they caught sight of Greg, they widened at once to the size of golf balls.

Greg waited, hands on his hips, for the verdict. The red-and-black satin bodice heaved across his hairy chest; the puffy black skirt did not cover his underpants. The fishnets were already digging in and the high-heeled boots had turned his calves to solid fucking rock.

“I ordered Lady Pirates,” Greg announced.

Mycroft took in this news, staring at his husband in astonishment.

His expression then cracked.

It took ten minutes for the worst of the laughter to subside - then a further ten to get Greg back out of the bodice.

“I’m sorry, love… I’m an idiot. I should’ve checked the box when it arrived…”

“You’re not an idiot,” Mycroft soothed. He was still flushed in the face and smirking. All potential for anger had been startled out of him by the sight of his lawfully-wedded husband in piratical fishnets. It was a memory to cherish. “You’re - _ridiculous,_ perhaps, but not an idiot. No matter. We’ll merely have to think of something else…”

“So… what are we now?” Greg asked. “I mean… you know what your brother and John are doing, don’t you? Frankenstein and the monster. Been working on it for weeks. That was going to be hard to beat anyway. Sherlock’s determined to have first place in the costume contest this year.”

Mycroft idled across to their wardrobe, opening it up. He bit his lip as he surveyed the clothing within - Greg’s, to the left; Mycroft’s, to the right.

And then an idea occurred. Greg watched it flash across his eyes.

“What?” he asked, smiling, as Mycroft reached into the wardrobe.

“Do you know the key to genius, darling?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned. “Dazzle me.”

Mycroft slid free one of his work suits, smiling. “Simplicity,” he purred.

 

*

 

Two hours later, as they made their way along the street towards the party, they practiced the performance.

“A little straighter in your back,” Mycroft said. “You’ll need to give an impression of height… _there._ That’s it. Slower, perhaps… take your time.”

Greg tried it - better. Much better. _Each step with care,_ he thought, as if the world were entirely under his command. He loosened his wrist around the black umbrella - strode _with_ it, smoothly, rather than just _carrying_ the thing - and everything fell into place.

“Magnificent,” Mycroft breathed, beaming in the darkness.

“Sure?”

“Yes. Keep your chin high - _yes!_ Perfect!”

Greg grinned. “You’re - weirdly observant of yourself, you know that? Okay, here goes… show me yours.”

Mycroft took a moment to mull it over. He then eased his hands deep into the pockets of the heavy black coat, and settled his shoulders a little lower - a little squarer. He adopted a rather sullen frown, regarding Greg with a weary but stern resignation.

Greg laughed aloud.

“Christ!” he said.

 _“‘Christ,’”_ Mycroft copied, with a crumple of his brow.

Greg laughed again. It was perfect. They’d greyed Mycroft’s hair and scruffed it up, taking care not to get any grey on his clean white work-shirt. Greg’s hair had been reddened and slicked neatly back.

“Final touches,” Mycroft murmured, opening up the Waitrose carrier bag they’d acquired on the way. “I’m sorry, my darling… it had to be done.”

He’d purchased an empty coffee cup, and a pack of ring donuts.

“What’s the…?” Greg asked, lost.

Mycroft retrieved a donut from the packaging, took a bite from it, and said gruffly with his mouth full, _“Not our division.”_

“Christ…” said Greg.

 _“Christ,”_ said Mycroft. He was getting far too good at this, Greg thought. “Practice, please,” he said in his usual voice. “We have Frankenstein and his monster to beat.”

Greg straightened his back again, drawing up to a height he didn’t really possess. The umbrella was key to all this, he thought. He gripped it lazily, curling his hand around the handle with an idleness and dexterity as if his fingers were much longer. He surveyed Mycroft along his nose, arched an eyebrow, and on an idea he reached sleekly inside the borrowed tweed waistcoat. He slipped out the antique pocket watch, consulting it with theatrical disregard - as if the time were in fact quite an irrelevance.

“Perfect,” Mycroft said, delighted. “I’m flattered by your attention to detail, darling.”

Greg inclined his head, coolly, fixing his lover with an imperious glare. “How kind of you, _Detective Inspector,”_ he purred. This was way too much fun, he decided. “And might I congratulate you on your nuanced portrayal of the chippy East End copper you married?” he drawled. “The casual blasphemy and the heady scowl are truly superb. I’m quite astonished.”

Mycroft’s eyes glittered with delight.

“Cheers, Mr. Holmes,” he said, in his very best impression of Greg - gruff, fond, vowels flat to the ground. “Comes pretty easily, t'be honest. You just have to slouch a foot off your height, and the rest falls into place.”

“Oi,” Greg grinned, his eyes flashing. “Right… c'mere, gorgeous. Kiss me, before we go in.”

They kissed, happily, in the dark. Mycroft’s hands slid beneath his dinner jacket, rubbing the silk back of his waistcoat.

“Darling?” he murmured against Greg’s mouth.

Greg was trying not to enjoy the lingering hint of donut on his lips. “Mm?”

“Promise me one thing?”

“Anything, love. Name it.”

He felt Mycroft smirk against his mouth. “Don’t make me keep this act up once we’re home, will you?” he said. “I’m not sure I could quite pull it off…” He raised an eyebrow, and mimicked Greg’s low, rumbling tones. _“Ohhh, fuck Myc… that’s it, gorgeous… take me deep.”_

Greg’s eyebrows nearly reached his slicked-back hair.

He stared into Mycroft’s eyes, and swished his tongue around his back teeth. How did it go again? God knew he’d heard it enough times. He leant low to Mycroft’s ear, nuzzled his earlobe gently, and whimpered,

_“Oh, Greg… please, Greg. Ruin me. Oh dear God, Greg. I’m yours. Please make me come.”_

“Bastard,” Mycroft whispered, softly.

Greg grinned widely. “C'mon, love…” He twirled his umbrella with a smirk, lifting his chin high. “Let’s go ruin your brother’s Halloween.”

 

*

 

_Thank you to my wonderful friend Ngaijuuyan, who drew the following illustration for this story! Yan, I'm so in awe of your talent... thank you so much!_

 

__

 


	4. "Is this your first time?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg realises mid-sex that he's taking Mycroft's virginity.

Something in his eyes - the way they lock so tightly into mine, searching for reassurance - something in the flickers of shock across his face. It’s not just pleasure. It’s new pleasure. This is all moving so fast, and part of me is panicking, unable to believe what’s happening - but there’s no way on earth that either of us could have stopped this.

I need it.

He needs it too.

We’ve been eye-fucking for weeks, circling each other, and now it’s happening.

A few glasses of wine in a hotel bar. _“Have you any plans for this evening, inspector? Perhaps you’d care to join me for a drink…”_ That’s all it’s taken. That’s all the fuel we needed to ignite this thing. A key from the desk, a lift ride in sizzling silence, and the room door wasn’t even locked before I slammed him up against it. He ripped my shirt in his efforts to get it off me. I don’t care. Before I knew it my back hit the bed, and we were tearing into each other, skin-on-skin, grinding together in desperation.

Weeks, I’ve wanted.

Weeks, I’ve wondered.

We smash through foreplay like a speeding train, moaning and kissing and snarling. This is the wildest thing I’ve ever done. The divorce only came through last week. I feel so free. Now there’s this, and it’s everything, and he’s underneath me at last and he’s gasping my name, clawing at my back, hissing with mingled pleasure and pain as I fuck him with my fingers, lube and condom from my wallet, and then he’s dragging me inside him - grasping at my arse with both hands - and in the shock of it, the sudden reality of it, we find ourselves staring at each other across an inch of space. Those gorgeous grey eyes fix on me in wild desperate panic. I watch his face tighten with enjoyment at my first few thrusts - his mouth opens - shock and relief course through his expression.

And I realise all at once.

“Is this your first time?” I gasp, reeling with it.

He buries his long fingers in my hair.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, as he starts to shake. “Fuck me, Greg. Please. _Now.”_

“Holy shit…” I can’t cope. He’s in his forties, and this is it. First time. And it’s _me._ “You’re - you’re a _virgin,_ aren’t you? W-Why didn’t you fucking say?”

His fingers tighten hard in my hair.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please stop reminding me and do something about it.”

 _Holy fuck._ I’d have gone slower if I knew.

Maybe it’s why he didn’t tell me.

But we’re here now - and he’s underneath me, begging me to keep going - and as I move myself inside him, his entire body stiffens and he moans.

“Ohhh…” he breathes, blushing. His thighs drag around me. “Ohh - _fuck..._  oh, thank god…”

“We’re staying here, alright? All night.” I swallow hard, nuzzling into his neck. “We’ll wake up together. You should’ve told me.”

His hands grip hard at my shoulder blades, rocking in rhythm with me now, panting with relief.

“Fuck me all night,” he begs in my ear. “Please don’t stop.”

 


	5. "Just make sure you've eaten."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's eating issues are triggered by a sharp comment from Sherlock; Greg soothes his husband's wounds.

Three small changes alert Greg to the reappearance of the ghosts.

There are always signs. They’re often different each time, but they’re there. After eight years together, Greg has become very good at spotting them. He’s also realised that the trick is to catch it all at an early stage, and rip the thoughts out at the root before it gets embedded too deeply.

This time, the very first sign is the sudden disinterest in restaurants.

“I happen to prefer your cooking,” Mycroft tells him, when asked. “It’s also a faff for you, getting changed after a long day at work… and besides, I’d rather not keep eating our retirement fund.”

The second sign comes on a night Greg works late. He arrives home just after nine, tired from his shift, and finds Mycroft in his home office working.

“Good day?” Greg asks, as he twists off his tie. “What did you have for dinner?”

“Reasonably productive,” Mycroft responds. He’s busy typing, tired eyes trained on the screen. “Anthea’s maternity leave is approaching, and her replacement is rather trailing behind in terms of efficiency… but then, we haven’t time to select a  _new_ replacement…”

Greg pauses, a few buttons into undoing his shirt. “And - dinner?” he checks.

Part of him already knows.

Mycroft pauses too. His fingers stall in their easy rhythm. “I was waiting until you came home.”

“You - knew I was getting something at work,” Greg says, with care.

Mycroft continues to type. “It slipped my mind,” he says. “I’ve been rather occupied with these preparations, Greg… the summit is in a month.”

When he’s in jumper and jeans, Greg slips quietly into the office. He kisses Mycroft on the top of the head as he works, saying,

“Gonna make you some pasta, okay? Twenty minutes ish. Be ready for a break then.”

“Oh - no, Greg. I’m no longer hungry. There’s no need to - ”

“What did you have for lunch?” Greg interrupts.

Mycroft says nothing, typing.

Greg knows already that these two signs will be followed by a third - but he gives the benefit of the doubt for now.

“I get that you’re busy with the summit, love,” he murmurs. “And I know it’s easy for you to get absorbed when I’m not around to enforce meal times. Just make sure you’ve eaten, will you?”

“Mm,” says Mycroft. “Of course.”

The third sign comes a few days later.

It’s a Friday evening, and both of them make it home by seven for once. When the plates are cleared - a vegetarian chilli - they settle into a film on the sofa, cuddled close like when they were first dating. They open a bottle of wine from the cellar. By the roll of the credits at ten, they’ve idled into slowly kissing and stroking, and Mycroft’s body arches gently into his partner’s hopeful touch.

As they stumble kissing into the bedroom, Mycroft snaps off the light. It’s half a sign - enough to stir somewhere in the depths of Greg’s attention, but not enough to stop proceedings.

That comes a little later, as advance stages of foreplay have been reached and a single item of clothing remains: Mycroft’s shirt. It’s the last scrap of fabric between them. Greg has pulled at it, dishevelled it and eagerly pushed his hands beneath it, but the thing has endured - and now, as he reaches for the buttons, Mycroft catches his hands and gently grips them instead, reaching up to kiss him, trying to distract him.

Concern flickers across Greg’s mind. He settles into the kiss until Mycroft has relaxed again, then makes another attempt on the buttons.

Once again, Mycroft sleeky detains and then relocates his hands - between Mycroft’s thighs this time, moaning softly, disguising the nervous denial as a request for pleasure.

It’s been eight years now - eight years in love with Mycroft Holmes, and all his ghosts. Greg wasn’t afraid of them to begin with.

He waits until he’s inside Mycroft - until the initial discomfort has eased, and they’re slowly moving together, sharing breath and sharing their quiet moans as they kiss, and Mycroft’s blush has risen up in his cheeks. His barriers are down now. Greg knows it. Mycroft is safe and comfortable in their bed, settled and warm, moaning gently and gripping Greg’s back as his husband makes love to him. The soft cotton of his shirt rumples between them. He’s shivering finely, panting, enjoying this closeness that only Greg has ever had with him.

“Gorgeous?” Greg broaches, voice soft.

Mycroft takes a moment to respond, swallowing as he reboots the language modules in his brain. “Mmh?”

“Why’re you keeping your shirt on?”

An intake of breath. “I - …”

“You - worrying about your body again, beautiful?”

Nothing - silence. Fear. Mycroft swallows again, pale, staring into Greg’s eyes with a panic that suggests Greg has just figured out some hideous secret - like if he removes the shirt, he’ll discover that Mycroft has somehow warped into a completely different being from the one he loves, and the world and everything in it will come crashing down around them.

Greg kisses him - kisses him slowly, and deeply, and cradles his face with one hand.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against his husband’s mouth. “Nothing’s changed… you know that?”

Mycroft stiffens. “F-Four pounds,” he manages, voice tight.

“I hadn’t noticed, love… nobody has. I promise.”

Something wild and frightened flashes in Mycroft’s eyes.

Greg doesn’t need to think for long. He nearly bites through the side of his cheek as he realises.

“Sherlock,” he intones.

Mycroft quivers, eyes dark and shining. “I - just hope that you - you still - …”

“M'going to speak to him in the morning,” Greg mutters, and kisses Mycroft deeply, feeling his heart strain in his chest with despair. As their lips come apart, he says, “Not having this any more. You’re fucking gorgeous.  _Fuck_  Sherlock.  _Fuck_  the scales.  _I’ve_ gained four pounds since September, beautiful - and he’s not making any digs at me about it. He only does it because he knows it hurts you. And he can damn well fucking stop it.”

Mycroft’s starting to cry. 

He spent their first two married years in weekly therapy, safe in his new husband’s love and support - getting over the worst of what Greg’s in-laws would probably still call a ‘childhood’ - but Greg is more inclined to call a fucking disgrace. The body image is only a small part of it, but it’s the one that’s proving the most tenacious. It only takes a few pounds, an ill-taken photo or a comment from Sherlock, and they’re right back here for a while - and even Greg’s eyes are felt with fear. They’re back here where the lights go off, and the shirt stays on, and restaurant dessert menus are suddenly petrifying, and Mycroft is skipping meals because he feels like he doesn’t deserve them.

“Shhh, beautiful… it’s alright…” Greg wraps Mycroft up in his arms, hushing him, stroking his hair. “M'here, love. It’s all alright.”

Love will heal it. 

It heals all things, and it always will - no matter how many times they come back to this. Greg doesn’t mind. He’ll pour love and care over Mycroft Holmes’s wounds until the end of their lives, no matter how many times they reopen. He’s done it for eight years now. It only gets easier every time.

Sherlock’s getting both barrels in the morning. He’s going to have his brother-in-law on the doorstep before noon, and the next time that Greg finds Mycroft returning to this place, to where the ghosts are, it won’t be Sherlock who’s sent him here.

For now, though - for tonight - Mycroft is in dire need of tender loving care.

Luckily he has a husband who specialises.

“You’re beautiful,” Greg breathes. He brushes his hands through Mycroft’s hair. “You know that? You’re more beautiful every year. More gorgeous than you’ve ever been. You’re so much happier now, and it shows… and it doesn’t matter if we’re gaining a little weight, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter at all. You’re still fucking lovely. I still have the dizziest, craziest crush on you.”

Mycroft makes a little sound into his shoulder.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

The words are tiny - barely there. Greg’s still inside him, held within his body.

“Please,” he breathes. “Don’t - fall out of - …”

Greg closes his eyes. He can’t bear it.

“Is that what your brother said?” he asks.

Mycroft doesn’t respond. His arms simply tighten.

Greg tightens his arms, too.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never. Love you for good. Forever, sweetheart. You’re not the number on the scales. You’re not your brother’s jokes. You’re Holmes-Lestrade and I love you. Love your mind. Love your body. Love every little piece of you.”

Mycroft shudders, slowly. He lets the words trickle down to his soul. For a few moments there’s simply quiet, simply holding each other - breathing - letting the healing begin.

Mycroft’s hips then rock, just a little. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, I - I want…”

Greg holds him tightly. He wants to make love. He needs to be shown, not just told. They’ve walked this path before, and Greg remembers every step. He knows the way back. 

He’ll get Mycroft there, safe and sound.

By the morning, Greg’s husband is nestled naked in his arms, and the shirt is discarded by the bed. He eats three full meals the next day, watched gently by Greg as he finishes each one. Sherlock receives a visitor mid-morning - a visitor who arrives without a smile, without his usual friendly greeting, and doesn’t leave until the situation is utterly and totally clear.

That evening, Mycroft gets an apology text.

This has never happened before. The best apology will be changed behaviour, Greg thinks - but it’s a good start. It’ll all help.

That night, the lights go out - but as Greg nuzzles gently at the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, no hands come up to stop him. Button-by-button, the ghosts retreat.

They’ll be back - though not for a while.

And when they return, Greg Holmes-Lestrade will be waiting for them.

 


	6. "We've got a lot to catch up on."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a request on Tumblr: "AU where Mycroft and Lestrade were together in secondary school and attempted to uphold a long distance relationship, but university and work got in the way. Years later they meet at a crime scene and, like fate, they fall into their relationship again like it never stopped..."

And in the space of a moment… there you are.

And God help me, Gregory Lestrade. You haven’t changed at all.

For a few seconds I can only stand exactly as I am, bolted into place as if by lightning, every fragment of my being blown open in recognition. It’s something about your stance - your profile - the way you hold your shoulders - _you,_  after all these years - but then the doubting begins, and I tell myself surely… it cannot be. You could not _possibly_ have aged that well. It’s been thirty years, Gregory. Time is never that kind.

And here is some unfortunate detective inspector in whom I must now confide classified government information, whilst trying to put out of my mind that he reminds me desperately of my first boyfriend.

I’m about to have to convince him to hand over the dead foreign spy he’s been called to deal with in an alley at two o’clock in the morning, and the poor man will be wondering why the devil I’m staring at him like that - if I’m deranged, drunk or both. I can hardly explain to him that he’s the spitting image of the boy I lost - the boy with black eyes that every girl just wouldn’t take their damn hands off, who spent his summers lying in the grass at the bottom of my parents’ garden - gently tracing our initials with a fingertip on my chest - circling them with a heart - telling me we’d go travelling together. We’d see the world. His band would go big, and he’d save up for that motorbike so he could come kidnap me from Magdalen. Kissing me like he was addicted to me. Laughing fit to burst at every savage teenage remark I ever made.

And this is now going to be hell for both of us - because surely the man before me could not be that boy.

Then your eye is caught by the jet black Audi out of which I’ve stepped, and you incline your head to admire it - and your gaze flickers to its owner - and I watch the lightning strike you, too.

A grin startles across your face - a grin that wipes away three decades of my life in an instant. You can’t believe it. Neither can I. We’re staring at each other the length of the alley, and then you step away from your sergeant - mid-conversation, brushing the poor man aside like he’s suddenly ceased to exist - and you come straight towards me.

“Myc?” you say.

My heart nearly detonates.

I’ve hated that name for three decades. I can’t bear to hear it - because every time I do, I hear it in your voice. It kills me. I’m not my mother’s Myc. I’m not some ballsy Tory politician’s Myc. I was always your Myc, _yours,_  and nobody ever says it right. Nobody says it like you used to.

“I… _Gregory_ ,” I manage. “Hello - …” _Sweet lord,_ three decades, and all I can manage is ’ _hello'?_ I can’t stop staring at you. It’s you. It’s you, it’s _you,_ it’s _truly you._ You’re grinning at me all the same, as if I’ve not transformed instantly into the awkward teenage wreck I always was.

“Christ,” you laugh - your mother used to clip you around the head for your blasphemy. I’m so glad you didn’t stop. “That’s - … _wow_. Been a while since anybody _g_ _regoried_ me. Jesus, Myc, _you’re_ the civil servant they’re sending? I didn’t even know you were in London these days. I thought you’d be… abroad, somewhere…”

Your eyes are shining. There’s a dead foreign spy slumped across the ground literally feet behind you, and half of Scotland Yard are now staring, but I do not care. Your grin is infectious. It always was.

“You look great,” you tell me. My heart heaves. “It’s - good to see you, Myc. Honestly.”

“Yes,” I manage, weak. “It’s - very good. You look well…"

You look, in fact, like somebody took the most handsome boy I ever had the pleasure to survey, matured him with an extra thirty years of utter masculine appeal, broadened his shoulders, made him into a damn detective inspector in black leather gloves and a long coat, then streaked his hair with the most evocative shade of silver imaginable. I’ve never wanted to run my hands through something so much in my life. How have you become more handsome, Gregory? How could such a miracle have possibly occurred?

"I - hadn’t realised you were involved with the police,” I said. “I’m delighted for you. Truly, I am.”

You bite your lip a little, remembering.

“Turns out there’s not much call for rock-stars…” you tell me. “Especially if you can’t sing or play the guitar.”

My innards appear to have been replaced with delighted dragonflies. I can feel them zipping to and fro, darting against the inside of my ribs.

I’m about to tell you that I always thought you were rather good, especially when the song was one you’d written with me sprawled beside you in bed - written about me - the colour of my hair, our first kiss, our future.

Then I realise I’m not eighteen anymore, and your team are staring at the pair of us, and I try to bring myself under some semblance of control. It’s two o'clock in the morning. I was sent here to bully you into ceasing your investigation at once, to wrench it from your hands and escalate it to a somewhat higher sphere of justice.

But suddenly I can’t even remember what damn country the spy is from.

“’ _Civil servant_ ’?” you say, grinning at me still. Your eyebrows flash. “Politics turned out pretty well then, did it?”

God help me, I could never hide anything from you. You’re looking at me like you know it all already. Like nothing could delight you more.

“My career has been… as I hoped,” I manage, discreetly.

Your grin could light this dingy alley from end-to-end.

“Okay, everybody,” you call to your team. Every head turns to you, every face - my heart pounds to see them respond so readily to you. A leader. A commander. _Respected._  Dear lord, Gregory, you’re more magnificent than you ever were - and you were _magnificent_. “Looks like we’re being stood down for now… let’s start packing up.”

I find myself astounded. I’m rather used to having to issue threats by this point.

“I - appreciate your co-operation, inspector,” I say, bewildered, and receive a glint from those perfect eyes in response.

“If you’re anything like you were back then,” you tell me, your voice low and roguish, “I know better than to argue. Give me an hour to clear out? Then you can tell me all about ‘being a civil servant’ over coffee.”

“It’s two AM,” I say, even as my heart tries to lurch itself out of my throat - just like it did thirty years ago, as I opened the crumpled note that had somehow appeared in my bag during Geography. _Hey, walk home with me after school? Got a thing to ask you… meet you at the gate? GL x_

I still have the damn thing, Gregory. Wrapped up in my school tie, boxed in the attic.

“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” you tell me, with that idle shrug of yours. “Besides… there’s no time like the present. Don’t you think?”

You turn to oversee the closing-up of your investigation - casually casting orders here and instructions there, quite at ease in yourself - and I lower my eyes to the ground, hiding my smile against the pavement.

 __No time at all_ , _I think.

 


	7. "I'm done. You fix it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting ready to meet Mycroft's parents for dinner is very stressful.

As Greg presented himself in the door of the lounge, Mycroft gave him a look of despair.

It wasn’t exactly the reaction Greg was hoping for.

“What?” he said, his face falling. 

“That… tie knot is…” Mycroft sighed, his attention caught by the flash of his mobile phone screen. “Could you redo it? I’m attempting to book a taxi and nowhere has anything for the next hour.”

“Where’s your driver? Where’s Lawson?”

“Busy,” Mycroft said, annoyed. “Because you promised me faithfully you’d booked a taxi.”

Greg pulled the tie free from his neck, biting the side of his tongue. He examined himself in the mirror above the fireplace as he redid it.

“It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk,” he said.

Mycroft looked at him as if he’d suggested they skateboard there, or arrive on camels. “We are not walking.”

“Why not? It’s better than waiting for an hour.”

“Because it’s my parents,” Mycroft snapped, “and it’s  _important._ ”

As Greg turned around, the knot redone, Mycroft looked at him as if he were on the verge of a breakdown.

“Oh, heaven help us…” Mycroft said. “It’s a  _tie_ - _knot_ , Greg. You should have mastered this by now. Are you  _trying_  to embarrass me?”  
  
“Fine,” Greg said, putting his hands up. “I’m done. You can fix it.”

Mycroft visibly bit his tongue. He dropped his phone onto the sofa and marched across the lounge, pulled the tie free and with a fixed jaw set about redoing it.

Greg watched his face, quietly, as he worked.

“Can I tell you something?” he said.

“Is it that you  _did_ book a taxi after all?” Mycroft inquired, cold, tucking the knot rather roughly into place.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Your parents are going to hate me anyway,” Greg said, soft - Mycroft looked into his eyes in alarm. “Because you’re a marvel. And I’m a ten-a-penny copper who swears and smokes and can’t even do his own tie. So… let’s just turn up late anyway. Besides, doesn’t matter what they think.”

He paused, gazing at Mycroft’s face.

“It matters what  _you_  think,” he said.

Mycroft gazed back at him, lost. “I’m - sorry I snapped.”

“M'sorry I can’t tie a tie.”

“They should care that I’ve found someone  _kind_ ,” Mycroft said. “Not that I’ve found someone who can execute a faultless Balthus knot.”

Greg shrugged, looking away. 

“You’re too good for me,” he said. “I don’t need your dad sneering at me over appetisers to tell me that. Nothing I don’t know already.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, thinking.

He then reached up, gently undid the knot of Greg’s tie, and pulled it loose. He tossed it onto the sofa without a word.

"There,” he said. “Fixed.”

His eyes lingered in Greg’s.

“You never wear ties,” he said. “You shouldn’t start now. Not to please me. Certainly not to please my parents.”

Greg gave him a small smile. He caught Mycroft’s hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Walk with me. We’ll tell your dad my Bentley’s in the garage.”

 


	8. "Do keep up, Gregory!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg takes a moment to admire Mycroft's assets.

It wasn’t often Greg got to see Mycroft _striding._

It wasn’t often they were late enough to warrant it - but they’d hit traffic, twice, on the way here, and they’d had the table booked since June. Even Mycroft couldn’t fix it if they were late.

In the end, three streets away, and with two minutes to go until their reservation, Mycroft had snapped at Lawson to unlock the doors, and they’d decided to make a run for it.

Greg had first fallen behind because of the posh shoes that Mycroft had presented to him earlier. (“It is fine dining, Gregory… not McDonalds.”) The bloody things were digging in, and turned out to be impossible to run in. How Mycroft could stride ahead so smoothly in his, Greg didn’t know.

It was while leaning down to massage his aching in-step, looking after Mycroft in panting despair, that Greg first noticed the arse.

Not that he’d been _unaware_ of Mycroft’s arse before now - far from it. The first time Mycroft had turned up to a date in linen trousers, Greg had been unable to concentrate on a word of the outdoor theatre they were watching. Shakespeare was difficult enough to follow anyway. Whenever they were kissing on the sofa, or when he stole into Mycroft’s morning shower to join him, it was the first place Greg’s hands always strayed to - and there was nothing like spooning sleepily against Mycroft at night; nuzzling the nape of his neck, cosying into the pad of his backside.

But it was something about those _trousers_ \- something about the way Mycroft was taking long, swift steps - something about the low angle from which Greg found himself staring…

It was enough to short-circuit his brain.

Mycroft turned his head over one shoulder, spotting that his lover had fallen behind.

“Do keep up, Gregory!” he called. “We’ll be late for our reservation.”

“Sorry, love - coming.” _Jesus Christ, I am a lucky man._  Greg let go of his aching in-step and hurried to catch up, telling himself this was all his fault for picking a long-legged boyfriend. He did his best to ignore the pinching of the shoes, which was difficult - but it was a walk in the park compared to ignoring Mycroft’s arse.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it. Even as he caught up, he dragged behind a little just to watch the seam of Mycroft’s trousers curve and tighten with each quick step. Christ, he had a _spectacular_ arse. Greg didn’t understand how he’d gone all this time without stopping to acknowledge that.

As they reached the restaurant, out of breath, Mycroft strode up the steps towards the gleaming glass entrance without a backwards glance.

Greg lingered at the foot of the steps, pretending to nurse a stitch. The view only improved from below.

Mycroft reached the door, and realised he was once again alone. He cast his eyes back down the steps.

“Gregory, what…?”

The twist in his spine had drawn the hem of his jacket slightly to one side. Greg bit his lower lip a little, averting his eyes.

“Just a minute,” he said. “Stitch. Not as young as I used to be…”

Mycroft searched his face, bewildered. Greg make the mistake of stealing one last glance - forgetting, like a fool, that his boyfriend was Mycroft Holmes.

 _"Gregory,_ ” came the astonished rebuke from the top step. “Are you _leering_ at my - ”

Greg gave a guilty grin. He dropped the act, straightening up and letting go of the stitch he didn’t have. “Sorry,” he said, abashed. “It’s just - those trousers - and you were hurrying, and it was - … look, it’s not my fault you’ve got a grade-A arse, love.”

Mycroft stared at him in amazement as Greg guiltily ascended the steps, put his arms around Mycroft in a brief hug, and said,

“Okay, I’m here now. C’mon. Let’s hope they’ve not given our table away.”

Mycroft let go of the door. He turned to face Greg, his face strangely open. His lips curved with a startled little smile.

“A  _'grade-A arse'?"_  he repeated, his eyes flashing.

Greg couldn’t fight a grin. “C’mon… you do, and you know it.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. I have neither the flexibility nor the inclination to stare at my own posterior in a mirror all day. What precisely marks me out as a ‘grade A’, might I ask, rather than a mere 'B’?”

Greg bit the side of his tongue playfully. He let his hands idle down to cup the posterior being discussed.

“It’s hard to define,” he murmured.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, his face a perfect mixture of delight and admonishment. “Growing harder by the moment, I imagine.”

Greg’s eyes gleamed. “Mm. S'a complex subject.”

“Do elaborate,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m fascinated.”

“Well… definition is one part of it, at least… roundedness. General shape. Firmness. Pertness. All factors taken into consideration.”

“In forming your expert conclusion, you mean?”

“Mm hmm.” Greg squeezed slowly, watching Mycroft’s pupils swell to twice their size. “Wouldn’t say no to some additional research, of course. As part of my academic interests. Further study always needed.”

Mycroft’s expression flickered. He smothered his smirk, leant close to Greg’s ear, and murmured,

“Continue to paw at me, beast, and we shall lose our table."

 


	9. "You're meant to be dead."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two years of grieving his husband's death, Greg discovers that Mycroft pulled a Reichenbach.

_Inspired by the following GIF - with full credit to its owner,[lestrabbit](http://lestrabbit.tumblr.com/post/41435747774/expecting-a-war-between-them). _

  

 

*

 

Greg held Mycroft’s eyes. The gun was steady as a rock against his forehead - not a shake, not a flicker of doubt. The safety catch was off. The thing was loaded. Mycroft’s finger curled comfortably around the trigger, and with the gentlest squeeze it would all be over.

There came an awful pause.

It seemed longer than their whole bloody marriage.

Greg forced out the words. “You’re meant to be dead.”

Nothing crossed Mycroft’s face. His eyes remained hard, and as cold as the handgun’s nose. "What are you doing here?” he asked in a murmur.

Greg’s heart heaved.

It was two years since he’d heard that voice. Two years of grieving - two years of letting go. They’d only been married three months when Mycroft was killed. A routine diplomatic mission abroad; the car was stopped by armed men, the passengers all taken, and nothing seen of them again. The government official who broke the news to Greg said Mycroft’s body had been recovered and identified, but was not in a fit state for family to see. He’d been buried already. A black headstone in the little churchyard near the family’s estate.

They’d put ‘Holmes’.

He’d been Holmes-Lestrade.

It might only have been three months - it might have been a whirlwind - MI5 might have been furious Mycroft didn’t get permission, and Greg’s dad had disowned him too - _nobody_ had understood - but Mycroft Holmes had belonged to Greg.

They’d had everything. It had been perfect.

And now Mycroft was dead.

Dead, and pointing a loaded gun between Greg’s eyes.

Greg’s fists tightened quietly at his sides. The rain-drenched concrete was hard against his knees. “I’m doing my job,” he said. “Foiling a robbery. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Of all the people…” Mycroft's grip tightened on the gun. “This is a complication I do not need.”

Greg felt his heart clench. _I always was._

Mycroft saw it cross his face.

“I was going to come for you.” His voice hardened. “In time, Greg. When I’d eliminated all of - … you don’t understand. I disappeared to keep you safe. We were being watched. I had to make you believe it, so they would believe it.”

Greg almost wanted to laugh.

"I stand and cry at your grave every Sunday. Two hour drive, just to tell you I miss you." He shook his head, staring into Mycroft's eyes. "Tell you my life’s grey and lonely without you. I was going to go tomorrow. Guess I don’t need to bother now."

Mycroft’s expression worked. “If you’re seen leaving this building alive… if they discover I was _here_ \- ”

“Do I get any last words?”

Mycroft said nothing; Greg took it as a yes.

“I hate you,” he said. Mycroft’s eyes flickered. “You ruined my life. Then you died, and you ruined it more. Now you’re alive, and you’re still ruining it. Just shoot me, Mycroft. I’m done.”

Mycroft’s shoulders stiffened. He readied his finger on the trigger.

“And for the record,” Greg added, “that moustache is fucking awful.”

Mycroft faltered. His expression twisted, fighting something. “I happen to think it suits me.”

Greg snorted.

"You look like you escaped from a Eurotrash special," he said. "I can’t believe that’s my final sight in this world. Fuck me up."

Mycroft’s left hand twitched at his side. Greg glanced at it, distracted - and before Mycroft’s fingers could curl out of sight, Greg caught the glint of a wedding ring.

His stomach twisted.

His own hung on a chain around his neck. It was there now, safe beneath his shirt. He never took it off. He couldn’t bear seeing it every morning. _A fucking widower._ But he couldn’t take it off.

He looked up along the barrel of the handgun, no longer breathing.

His husband looked back at him, searching his face.

As the flutter of a distant siren caught their ears, Mycroft took a breath - decision made. “How quickly can you run?”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Let’s find out.”

 

*

 

Five days, five nights. Coaches, trains - sleeping on benches in stations, one of them awake and one to keep watch. Food where they could find it. Mycroft wouldn’t let Greg use his bank-cards, said they could be traced. They reached Riga at last, and found some dodgy backstreet hostel where they asked no questions. Mycroft paid for the night in advance in forged Euros.

They’d have to be gone by dawn - but there was a proper bed to sleep in, and a shower.

As soon as they got through the door, Greg slammed Mycroft up against it.

For a while, it wasn’t clear if they were fighting or kissing. Greg didn’t care, so long as they were touching. Mycroft gripped his hair hard enough for it to hurt, and Greg bit into his neck until he tasted blood. Mycroft had the sense to lock the door, then dragged Greg to the bathroom, ripped the clothes off him and hauled him into the shower.

They stayed under the water for nearly half an hour - kissing, grinding and swearing, spitting rage and love at each other in desperation. Mycroft washed him. He washed the grime and the sweat of the last five days away, and the grief of two lonely fucking years - then sank to his knees on the tiles, gathered Greg’s cock into his throat, and reminded them both why they fell in love so fast.

They couldn’t screw - no lube. Greg was angry, but he wasn’t _that_ angry. He bent Mycroft over the bed instead, held him open and rimmed him until spit and two fingers felt as good as being fucked, and My was muffling his cries into a mouthful of duvet. They’d find lube on the way to Tallinn, and he’d make My plead for it - give him rough until midnight then slow until dawn.

After that, onto Helsinki - get hold of the money. Mycroft only had two more men to take care of. Hard bastards, but in two long years they’d grown arrogant and lazy. Both were in Chicago.

Then the network would be gone, and the planet would be safe for My and Greg again. No more watching eyes. No more danger. They’d find somewhere to settle. Some corner of the globe. New names - think up some story - find some place to live, some way to pay the rent, and see what the rest of their lives turned up.

“Should’ve told me,” Greg said, at one AM, lying on My’s chest in the darkness. “Two years ago… should’ve taken me with you.”

Mycroft dragged on the cigarette they were sharing. They only had two left to get them to Tallinn.

“I needed the world to see you grieve,” he said.

Greg watched him blow out smoke. “I needed you not to be dead.”

“Did you have anyone else?” Mycroft asked. “After me.”

“No.” Greg bit the side of his cheek. “I - tried. Few times. But I couldn’t.” He took the cigarette, and settled himself with a drag. “Always broke down and started crying,” he muttered around it. “Telling him I hated you. Telling him I missed you.”

Mycroft huffed. “Not conducive to the ambience, I imagine.”

“Mmh. Not really.” Greg took another drag, trying to push the memories from his head - dark curls, pale skin - long legs, too much like My. Grey eyes, too much like My. A friendship choked to death by the black bands of grief. “For what it’s worth, he missed you too.”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered into his.

They darkened slowly.

“Who?” he intoned, his voice hard.

Greg rolled the cigarette across his lower lip.

Mycroft’s jaw set in fury.

“Precisely how many times,” he demanded, “did you _'try'_ to fuck my - ”

Greg rolled his eyes. He pushed up onto his elbows, ground the cigarette into the ashtray, and crushed their mouths together. Mycroft snarled at him, fighting him. Greg grabbed his wrists and held him down.

They kissed until their lips were bruised. Greg wound his way down the bed to start making amends.

He made several more before dawn.

They left at six; Greg took the key.

Months later, in a high-rise hotel suite in Chicago, he gave it to My for their third wedding anniversary. A bewildered jeweller on West Division Street had engraved it for him.

 

 _Eurotrash. From your complication._ _  
_ _Don't ever fucking leave me again. xxx_

 


	10. "Great. Perfect. Nice. Fuck this."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft appears to cancel their very important plans, Greg supplies him with a piece of his mind.

Apologies… our best laid plans for this evening will have to be changed. M  
[Received 17:09]

 

great. perfect. nice.  
[Sent 17:14]

fuck this.  
[Sent 17:15]

 

Excuse me? M  
[Received 17:17]

 

you're cancelling on me... right?  
[Sent 17:27]

 

Something has arisen. Unavoidable. All I'm requesting is an amendment. M  
[Received 17:31]

Am I to take it from the lack of response that you are angry? M  
[Received 17:43]

 

you know what, myc? I don't even know what to say to you right now...  
[Sent 17:46]

oh no… wait…  
[Sent 17:46]

here it comes…  
[Sent 17:46]

you are a prick.  
[Sent 17:47]

you are a PRICK. And its all you are.  
[Sent 17:47]

you don't even realise why I wanted to meet up tonight, do you?  
You don't even remember why tonight might matter to me  
[Sent 17:48]

of course you don't  
[Sent 17:49]

because... as we've now established... you are a prick.  
[Sent 17:49]

why did I even dream you might remember its my birthday and try to be there?  
[Sent 17:50]

its not like we've been together for 6 months, right???  
[Sent 17:51]

6 months of you cancelling on me and postponing and "amendments" (btw I know you mean "move it to some time in 3 weeks")... 6 months of you making me last priority when I always bloody put you first  
[Sent 17:52]

jesus christ, why do I even bother?  
[Sent 17:52]

literally all I wanted was to have dinner with you  
[Sent 17:53]

just have you to myself  
[Sent 17:53]

for ONCE, spend some time together...  
[Sent 17:53]

you know what? forget it  
[Sent 17:54]

this is over.  
[Sent 17:54]

 

*

 

Greg smashed the final ‘send’, locked his phone and hurled it at the pillows of his bed. It resounded off the headboard with a clunk. He didn’t check to see if the screen had smashed. He didn’t care.

He’d turned down drinks with Scotland Yard for this. He’d said no to a takeaway with John and Sherlock. He’d said no to all his family, no to all his friends, no to everyone in the whole bloody world… just so he’d get to see that face by candlelight, for once, for his birthday.

_Fuck this. This is how I’ll remember my fiftieth._

Sitting alone in his flat, grieving. Drinking. There were two bottles of wine on the coffee table - a gift from his division. Greg made immediate plans to drink both of them before midnight. He was going to drink them so fast he barely tasted them.

As he headed through to the kitchen for a corkscrew, too angry yet to break into tears, there came a knock at the door of his flat.

 _One of the neighbours,_ Greg thought. They’d been dropping by all day - cards, well wishes.

Maybe it was someone who’d want to come in. Greg knew most of the other flats well, and right now he’d give anything not to spend his fiftieth alone. He hoped it was someone who liked drinking red wine very quickly.

He unlocked his front door as he arranged his face into some semblance of happy greeting. He jerked the door open.

Standing outside on the landing was Mycroft.

Greg’s face fell.

He then realised Mycroft was standing beside a suitcase. He was dressed in comfortable clothing - a cotton shirt and knitted argyle tank-top, casual chinos, weekend glasses - and he was holding two airline tickets.

“Rome,” he said, as Greg’s brain reeled. “Eight nights. Your superintendent has authorised your leave - I cleared it with him six weeks ago - and Sergeant Donovan has said she’s happy to cover everything in your absence. You have half an hour to pack, then our flight will be leaving from Heathrow.”

Greg gaped noiselessly for a moment.

He swallowed.

“Has your… phone been on silent for a while?” he checked.

Mycroft’s brow creased. This was not the reaction he’d expected.

“Yes…” he said, slowly. “Why?”

Greg swallowed again. “Can I borrow it a second?”

 


	11. "Did you think I forgot?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous story; food smut and romance to make it all better.

Mycroft had booked the Palazzo Manfredi, and the room was gorgeous - masculine in style, autumn colours with a carpet so plush Greg could have slept on it, and a view of the fucking Colosseum.

It was late when their flight got in. The sun was melting over Rome through the windows as they came into land. At the hotel they were greeted like visiting royalty, shown up to their suite and left in luxurious privacy, with a guarantee that anything they could possibly need was only a phone call away.

Greg unpacked, still so shocked he could barely believe this was happening - and feeling so guilty he could eat his own fingers.

“Did you think I forgot?” Mycroft asked, amused, stepping close behind his lover as Greg gazed out at the Colosseum. He nuzzled into the side of Greg’s neck.

“A bit,” Greg admitted, biting his lip.

“I’m sorry for those times I _have_ cancelled. I imagine past experience has left you wary.”

Greg’s eyes closed with contentment as Mycroft began to nibble gently at his neck. A tender hand stroked across his stomach, long fingers easing between the buttons of his shirt - touching his skin - the lightest, gentlest brushes. _Fuck me up, gorgeous… you’re not a prick..._

“I can’t believe you’ve done all this for me,” Greg mumbled, relaxing more and more into his lover’s arms. “It's… perfect. Thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“You only turn fifty once,” Mycroft said, softly. “I wanted you to remember it.”

As he found Greg’s favourite spot behind his ear, and nibbled at it gently, a long and luxurious shudder passed the full length of Greg’s body.

“Mm?” Mycroft murmured. His fingertips were still stroking Greg’s stomach, gently petting the flecks of dark hair. They eased free from between the buttons of Greg’s shirt and coaxed downwards instead, skimming over the fly of his jeans. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” he soothed, and gripped Greg gently through the denim.

Greg’s entire body stiffened. “F-Fuck…”

As Mycroft massaged his cock, biting and kissing at his neck, one thought came drifting through the haze of Greg’s mind.

“If there was something I wanted…?” he whispered, as Mycroft undid his jeans.

“Name it,” Mycroft breathed in his ear. The zip came apart, decadently slow. “Anything in this world. It's yours.”

Greg swallowed, shivering, as Mycroft reached inside his boxers, wrapped a hand around his straining cock, and started to stroke him.

It was becoming hard to think.

“I want to order some room service,” he managed, his voice tight. He bit down on a moan as Mycroft freed him from his jeans, rubbing him up and down in just the rhythm that he liked.

“Mm?” Intrigue curled around Mycroft’s tones. “What precisely are we ordering?”

 

*

 

It arrived looking sublime: actual Italian tiramisu, crafted with skill and artistry by a master chef. The delicate, crisply-edged cake smelt so richly of coffee that Greg’s heart beat harder just breathing in the smell of it. It had been arranged with precision on a vast white ocean of porcelain, and supplied with two spoons - which rather made Greg smile. Topped with chocolate curls, dusted with cocoa, the final touch was a drizzle of chocolate sauce so dark that it was almost black.

It looked so dainty and sweet that Greg felt almost bad for it.

He wondered if the chef who’d lovingly put this masterpiece together (then dispatched it, post-haste, to the Junior Suite) could have had any idea of the fate that lay in store for their creation.

Their culinary efforts would be _deeply_ appreciated, anyway.

That, Greg was sure of.

He picked up the pretty square with his fingers, and examined it for a moment with a smile. It squished a little in his hold, but kept its shape - cream, coffee, mascarpone. This was decadence in dessert form.

As he crushed the thing in his grasp, it oozed between Greg’s fingers. Messy glee filled his heart at once. Without another moment’s pause he smeared the handful of cream, cocoa and sauce around Mycroft’s burgeoning erection, rubbing it eagerly over every inch of his lover’s cock. Mycroft let out a sound Greg had never heard another human being make. As Greg followed his hands with his mouth, greedily coiling his tongue through the almighty mess of sponge and cream, Mycroft dissolved into full-body shudders and bit out Greg’s name, groaning, arching against the bed in despair.

It was _good_ tiramisu, too. There was rum in there somewhere, and proper coffee - real Italian coffee. The addition of Mycroft’s cock was only improving the flavour. Greg licked and lapped and laved with his tongue until he’d cleaned up most of the mess, scooping it from the sides of his mouth with long swipes of his tongue. By that point, Mycroft’s urgent sounds of enjoyment had even Greg on the brink of coming. He pulled Mycroft’s cock greedily into his mouth, taking him deep at once, licking up every hint of cream and coffee he could find as he sucked on him in desperate contentment. Mycroft’s fingers found their way into his hair. They gripped, a little tight. Greg didn’t mind. He knew exactly what this was doing to Mycroft. He loved it. _Give me, gorgeous. Give me what I want._ Greg found himself moaning in low, hungry satisfaction, shivering as Mycroft began to rock up into his mouth a little, seeking that last little flicker of stimulation. Greg gave it to him - sucking hard, curling with his tongue, moaning in excitement for what he craved.

To rum, coffee and cream came a brief rush of bitter and salt, as those long and perfect fingers gripped in his hair, holding Greg just where they needed him. Greg drank. He swallowed, shivering, wishing he knew why it turned him on so much to do this. Something about worshipping his lover with his mouth just made him feel alive.

In his afterglow, Mycroft pulled Greg up the bed, tipped him onto his back and leant over him, panting. He licked every smear and smudge of cream from around Greg’s mouth. They melted into kissing - tasting each other’s mouths, tiramisu and Mycroft, all mingled into one - and Greg knew without doubt that he’d never enjoyed a birthday cake so much in his life.

He wondered what else Room Service could send for him to cover Mycroft in.

They had a long week here, he supposed - they could work their happy way through the menu.

He hoped Mycroft had no objection to lasagne.

 

*

 

“How was your holiday?” the division’s receptionist asked, nine days later, as Greg returned with a substantial smile to Scotland Yard. “Did you do anything fun?”

“Surprise trip to Rome,” Greg told her, grinning, as he signed in. “A friend whisked me away for my fiftieth.”

“Wow, did he? That’s so nice…” She gave Greg a dewy smile. “I _love_ Italy,” she purred. “I just love the food there.”

Greg managed not to laugh.

It was a pretty close-call.


	12. "Killed him? Wait, what, literally?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When their home is broken into, Mycroft does what he must.

Mycroft wasn’t sure how long the calm would last. He made good use of it. He entered the number for the control room of Scotland Yard into his mobile phone in white-faced silence, then held it to his ear as it rang.

It took an interminable length of time for someone to answer. His own breath was impossibly loud in the silence.

_“Scotland Yard. You’re through to Control.”_

Mycroft took a moment to recall how his vocal chords functioned. “DCI Holmes-Lestrade, please.”

His own voice sounded strange to him - stiff, sharp. He observed that his hands were beginning to shake, and his pulse accelerating. It was starting. He hadn’t much longer.

The young lady in Control asked him who was calling, please?

“It is his husband. Kindly tell him it is urgent.”

Connecting tones. More silence. Mycroft realised that his eyes had closed, and he was leaning back against the wardrobe door, the room closing in on him. His lungs were filling and emptying of their own accord now, fast, and he could feel all the latent panic and the terror kicking in like a drug, blitzing out all his higher processes. _Please, darling. Please answer. Please, Greg. Help._

A click; the sound of coffee being swallowed.

“Myke?” Greg was on his break - half one in the morning, somewhere out in Shoreditch. Mycroft had always hated seeing his husband leave for night shifts. Now he knew why. “You okay, treacle? Control said it’s urgent…”

It was the sound of Greg’s voice that finally broke Mycroft’s control. He choked in a breath, clawing back the panic just enough to speak. His entire body shook.

“Darling, I - need you to come home,” he said. “Now, please. This second.”

There was a clunk as Greg dropped something. “Myke - what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Mycroft swallowed back the glob of fear now rising in his throat. In despair, trying to calm himself, he opened his eyes.

Blood was seeping slowly from the man now lying dead on their bedroom floor. He’d come with electrical tape, corded black rope, and a hunting knife. Mycroft had realised the logical implications of those objects the moment he’d spotted them. Only now, seeing them fallen to the ground, did he fully contemplate what they were _not_ being used for in this very moment.

Nausea - thick, strangling and as cold as death - overwhelmed Mycroft’s senses for a moment. He couldn’t bear it. Tape, wrenched across his mouth. Cords, hauled around his wrists. The knife to ensure his compliance. Taken from the house to somewhere that Greg could never find him, never reach him. He shut his eyes tightly, panting as he tried to crush back the thoughts.

He realised with a lurch he was still holding the revolver.

It was locked into his grip so tightly that he couldn’t feel it anymore.

“Myke - ” came the voice in his ear, panic-stricken - the voice that said _‘I love you’_ at least once everyday; the voice that said _‘goodnight, gorgeous’;_ the voice that was allowed to call him Myke. “Sweetheart, speak to me. I’m right here. Tell me what’s happening.”

Mycroft drew one last, deep breath.

“I have just shot and killed a man,” he said - as if he were telling Greg the time; as if he were telling him they were out of milk. “He is dead.”

“You - … killed him? Wait, _what,_ literally? Myke, who - who the fuck have you - ”

“An intruder,” Mycroft said. The room began to slide. “Rope,” he said. “A knife. Dead. The children are safe.”

The revolver, the phone, and then Mycroft hit the floor.

Before he blacked out, his last conscious awareness was of his husband’s voice - muffled on the phone line, but shouting.

“ - my house, _now_ \- fucking _now_ \- _put your fucking foot down, Donovan - ”_

 

* * *

 

Six AM. Four hours, and Greg hadn’t moved from the chair.

The staff said Myke needed to sleep. It might be some time before he was back with them - a few hours, maybe - but they said he’d be okay. It was shock, they said. His brain just needed some downtime. Some space to process all the adrenaline. He’d be perfectly fine once he’d slept, and everything would all be alright.

Greg still wasn’t going anywhere.

Sally had taken the kids to their Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John’s. She’d driven them there herself. Greg hadn’t trusted anyone else with them. As they’d got into the police car, he’d hugged all three of them so hard he could still feel them in his arms right now - their pyjamas, their dressing gowns, their tentative and nervous hugs back. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to answer their confused, sleepy questions. He’d just hugged them, mute and pale, then watched Sally drive them away.

He had two people stationed outside Baker Street, standing guard through the night.

There was another one waiting outside Myke’s room right now.

“Pretty sure,” Sally had said at four AM, when she’d called to update him. “Neighbour spotted a car loitering in the back lane. Looks like they were sending one guy in first for Mycroft, then the other three would follow and clear the house of valuables. They’re claiming they were going to leave the kids asleep in their beds, but…”

“You got all three of them?” Greg bit out. Words had been in short supply since the call. He couldn’t cope with speaking right now. He just needed to sit here and watch over his husband.

“Yeah,” she said. “All three in custody. The guy sent in first was clearly armed with intent, so don’t worry. Mycroft’s well covered for self-defence. Good job he’s married to a copper who keeps a firearm in the bedside drawer. You - _might_ have to answer some questions about that, but…”

Greg said nothing, eyes shut as he wrestled his coursing black rage under control.

He’d never been in favour of the death penalty before. Suddenly, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to those three men. The one Mycroft had shot would be the lucky one. Greg would pull them slowly and painfully inside out with his bare hands, one-by-one, and feel nothing as they screamed.

Sally’s update had been two hours ago. Since then, there’d been nothing - just the private room, and the chair, and Mycroft’s face as he quietly slept.

Greg would never leave his side again.

They’d retire, now. Fuck the plan. Finances weren’t everything. The kids could get part-time jobs at university, pay for their own driving lessons. It wasn’t worth it. They’d retire right now, and downsize to somewhere smaller that Greg could guard night and day, and he’d just hold Mycroft quietly in his arms forever. Stroke his hair; tell him he was so fucking brave that it stopped Greg’s heart for a second just to think about it. Tell him he was sorry. Sorry he’d not been there.

Greg’s phone bleeped, somewhere in the endlessness.

It was a few minutes before he checked it. He didn’t want to take his eyes from Mycroft.

Text from John.

_Hi greg. The children are fine, just eating breakfast. All a little worried and asking after you & m. Is he awake yet? We are thinking of you both. So sorry this has happened. _

Greg typed _‘not’_ , meaning to follow it with _'yet’_ \- when he heard the quiet drawing of a long, slow breath.

As Mycroft stirred, his expression fluttered at unfamiliar pillows.

The world fell to pieces around Greg.

“Myke - …” He dragged his chair closer, tears breaking in his eyes. _Fuck,_ the bastard had taken a knife. He could have killed Myke. Could have cut his throat. The first Greg would have known was getting in at seven AM, heading up to bed and finding him there. “M-Mykie - it’s me. M'here.”

He leant over the bed, shaking. He wrapped an arm around Mycroft, gathering him close, and as Mycroft nestled into his chest with exhaustion, Greg let the tears roll in hot and blinding agony down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Now he couldn’t imagine a time when he’d ever stop.

When Mycroft spoke, his voice was so weak it was barely audible.

“Are the children alright?”

Greg wove his fingers through his husband’s hair, choking silently around the words. “They’re fine. With your brother and John.”

Mycroft exhaled, slowly. He pressed his cheek against Greg’s heart.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Greg screwed his eyes tight shut. It hurt to speak - but he’d never been so glad to say the words. “I love you, too. Love you more than my life.”

 


	13. "Think I feel like getting cosy."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soft, domestic moment while washing-up.

As he’s rinsing off the final plate, gentle arms encircle Greg’s waist from behind. Their height difference is just close enough to be comfortable. His husband’s chin rests on his shoulder; fond fingertips steal between the buttons on his shirt.

Grinning, he transfers the plate across to the drying rack.

“You okay?” he asks in a murmur.

“Mm.” The tip of Mycroft’s nose eases behind his ear, dipping into his scent and drinking him in. “Have you any work to complete ahead of tomorrow?”

Greg reaches back into the hot water, searching the bottom of the bowl for lost cutlery: two forks, a dessert spoon and Mycroft’s tea strainer. 

“Got it all done before dinner,” he says, soaping the tea strainer with care. “How about you?”

“My inbox has remained miraculously empty. It seems the evening is ours.” 

“Glad they’re all taking your part-time retirement seriously, love. God knows you’ve earned it.”

“Mm...” Mycroft’s fingertips ghost over Greg’s skin beneath his shirt, brushing the dark hair on his stomach. “Rather marvellous, I must admit. Having more time for that which truly matters.”

 _God. I love you._ Greg tilts his head to nuzzle Mycroft's jaw, absently rinsing the forks under the tap. 

“Glass of wine and a boxset, d’you reckon?” he says. “Think I feel like getting cosy.”

He feels his husband inhale against his back. “Paradise,” Mycroft murmurs, kissing the curve of his neck.

 


	14. "The fuck? Who are you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock broke Greg's nose by accident. Greg names his blood-price - a favour.

It had taken fifteen minutes to lay out the full proposal to Sherlock - who, at first, didn’t seem entirely sure whether Greg was joking or not.

“And the result will be…?” Sherlock asked, frowning all over his face.

Greg bit the corner of his lip. He still felt awkward spelling this out, even though it had been Sherlock who’d first spotted it - months ago now. The flirting, the lingering looks. Greg was finally ready to do something about it, and the perfect opportunity had come up. All he had to do now was convince Sherlock to help. 

“Well…” he said. “ _Mycroft.”_

“The result will be… ‘ _Mycroft_ ’.”

“Yeah… I’ve thought it through, Sherlock. It’s going to work. Believe me.”

Sherlock didn’t seem convinced. “I’m - not sure I follow your reasoning, Lestrade.”

Greg sighed, laying his hands flat on the café table. They were in the front window of Costa coffee, where they could be seen from the road. 

“Look,” Greg said. “It’s simple. You want to make amends, right?”

Sherlock’s expression worked. “Yes.”

“Then just play along. What’s the problem? It’ll take five minutes. That’s all.”

“Lestrade, I know I broke your nose - and for that, I’m sorry. But what you’re doing doesn’t seem fair.”

Greg itched at the bandaging that still covered part of his face. Sherlock’s latest intervention in a case had included the advice that the suspect was highly unlikely to turn violent - wrong, it turned out. Spectacularly wrong. “What d’you mean, ‘not fair’?” Greg said. “D’you want to do my laundry for a month instead?”

“You wish to secure the attentions of  _my brother_ ,” Sherlock clarified, with a raised eyebrow, “by flirting in the window of a coffee shop with  _me?_ ”

Greg spread his palms wide, bewildered. “What’s the matter?”

“How can you be sure that Mycroft will even find out?”

“He’s watching us right now, Sherlock. Look at all the cameras on that corner - he’s been watching us from the second we came in and sat down. You know what he’s like. So do I. Besides… Mycroft and I have been circling each other for months now, and he’s just not making a move. I’m sick of him playing hard to get. It’s exhausting. We both know the fastest way to make your brother want  _anything_ is to make him think that  _you_  could have it instead. How can this  _not_ work?”

Sherlock hesitated, casting his eyes uncomfortably around the café.

“You broke my nose,” Greg reminded him, tersely. He pointed at it. “And you said you’d do ‘anything’.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said. “What precisely am I expected to do?”

“Just… hold my hand,” Greg said. “So he gets jealous.”

Guarding his expression from the window, Sherlock reluctantly took Greg’s hand across the table. He held it for a minute beside Greg’s americano.

“This is bizarre,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, it is. But that’s how your oblivious brother works,” Greg said, “and I’m bored of low-key flirting.  _And_ you broke my nose.”

He hesitated, wondering how much detail those security cameras across the road could pick up.

“Feed me a marshmallow,” he said.

Sherlock stared at him across the table, unimpressed. “I am not doing that.”

“Feed me a marshmallow, Sherlock, or do my laundry for a month. S’your choice.”

Sherlock repressed a sigh, visibly bit the side of his cheek, and fed Greg a marshmallow.

“I’m not doing anything else,” he said, as Greg chewed it.

“That’s fine,” said Greg. “We’ve done enough. You’re off the hook now, mate. Thanks.”

“And what am I supposed to say if Mycroft asks if you and I are now engaging in sexual congress?”

“Just… look pleased with yourself, and tell him the early bird catches the worm.”

Four hours later, Greg Lestrade received a text message.

 

_A long shot, perhaps… but I wondered if you had plans for dinner. MH._

 

Greg grinned, made a mental note to thank Sherlock for his help on yet another case successfully solved, and swiftly typed back a reply. 

 


	15. "You're your own worst enemy."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft suffers from migraines. Greg makes them all better.

Headache.

Three PM. Painkillers - air, fresh air - nothing. Tired. Sleep cycle in shards. Working, over-working - but if I won’t, then who the hell else will? What other option?

Sleep suffers first. Always this pattern. Always this way. Sleep, the first to fall. First to be dispensed with. Sleep, first. Food, next.

No breakfast - early morning conference call. No lunch - too occupied. Hunger is thought, and thought can be suppressed. Simply substitute black tea all day.

Mistake.

Tannins.

Should have known. Should have considered. Authenticated route to disaster.

Fool.

Fool, fool,  _fool._

Cracking apart by four PM. Cracking open. Cracking into pieces. Hunched over my desk, eyes shut, fingers braced against my skull and longing for cold, for calm, for relief - daydreaming of snow and ice - snow inside my skull, white inside my skull - white and cold and clean and please make it stop.

Dear God, make it stop.

Neurologist last year. Scans, suggestions, prescriptions, pills, side effects, new pills, new side effects,  _this_ doctor,  _that_ doctor, half my age, openly typing my symptoms into an internet search engine, and have I tried getting a little more sleep? Christ be kind. In the end, simply sigh… surrender. Settle for the suffering. Easier to suffer. Too tired to fight, too tired to care, too tired to place myself in one more pair of hands of incompetent half-my-age blinking nervous and pale through their glasses at me, have I tried meditation, have I tried taking more holidays, have I tried delegating, dear sweet  _God_ on high, I will just  _keep_ the wretched headache. At least it is  _my_ headache. Not a pills headache. My head, my skull, my wretched brain,  _my_ headache. No more tests. No more trying. Too tired to persevere with trying.

Tell myself I will manage, and walk my path with the pain.

What other option? None.

Nothing to be done. Nothing to change.

Drawing weak and wretched now, though.

Pain, pain,  _pain._  Pulsing with my heartbeat, pounding in my ears and hot behind my eyes. Pain under my skull. Pain like a wire twisted from temple to temple. Pain, a sharp and smoking flare; pain that perishes; pain that thins me into threads.

People.

All day, people. One after the other, endless people. Speaking, talking, asking, checking, goading, twisting, asking asking  _asking._  Noise and noise and noise and noise.

Five PM.

Anthea.

Intervenes.

Coat, scarf. Gloves. Laptop bag. Car summoned. Windows blacked, the whole world moving, grinding, shuddering, traffic and stopping and starting and lurching, waiting, waiting, waiting,  _waiting,_  and the pain is clasping rigid with its jagged metal claws into my skull and I am breaking. I am weary. All of me weary. Every breath I take weary, every gasp of pain weary, but thoughts now as fast as a bullet train and spinning me into fragments as they scream and scream and scream and scream. Tomorrow - cabinet meeting - unavoidable. Preparation not yet complete. No time for  _headache._  No time for  _pain._  No time, no  _time._

Doorstep.

Key. Barely focus. Barely see.

But door handle upturned at unusual angle - cocked - and pause, and realise music through open window - radio. Head caving with the pain, but heart leaping and praying and  _please._  Please, please may it be true.

Open door.

Garlic and tomato clouds. Heat - cooking - kitchen, pans.

Star Wars socks on the linoleum. Old jeans and striped blue shirt.

Turns, and sees me.

Smile.

Smile to put the stars to shame.

Finished shift early. Thought he’d surprise me. All week, hasn’t seen me. Pasta alla norma. Favourite. Brought wine - red, favourite, even though he likes white. Mint ice cream in freezer. Favourite.

Takes one look at me - face falls.

“What’s wrong, gorgeous?”

Coat off, gloves off. Laptop bag confiscated and taken away. Door locked and led by the hand upstairs to bath - barely aware of anything but the sound of water running, and the pulse of the pain - sandalwood steam. Pain, pain, pain. My own breathing. My whole world, reeling. Made to sit on the bath-side, and buttons quietly undone for me. Gentle hands. Tender hands.

Fabric soothed back from my skin - bare-chested now, and breathing. Held. Hair stroked.

 _Work too hard,_ he says.

Close to tears.  _Work too hard. I am sorry._

Forehead kisses, soft as falling snow - shaking fingers. Upset to see me this way. Haven’t taken proper care of his Mycroft for him.

 _Here now,_ he says. Helps me into the bath.  _All alright now._

Kneels on the tiles to wash me - sleeves wet, doesn’t care - pouring warm water over my skin, over my forehead, over my pain. Fingertips card through my hair, massaging slowly with shampoo, closing my eyes and letting his fingers slowly break up the pain for me, softening, washing. More water. Rinsing. Warm water and fragranced suds, sliding gentle down my back. Fingers through my hair again, and simply stroking now - rubbing in easy circles, and I want to weep. Leaning into him, weak as a new fawn.

“What m'I gonna do with you?” he whispers, kissing my temple. “You're your own worst enemy. You know that?”

The softest towel he can find, wrapped around me with utter care. He rubs me slowly dry.

“We’ll get some food in you,” he whispers. “Proper breakfast tomorrow, too. I’ll do us the works.”

Can’t remember when I last heard something so wonderful.

“C'mere,” he murmurs, and bends - sweeps me carefully from my feet, and up into his arms. I hold tight around his neck as he carries me. “Let’s get you into bed… you can lie down while I finish cooking, and rest for a while. Bet you’ve not stopped all day, have you? Idiot…”

Bed. Warm. He watches me eat every mouthful - curled within the covers in the half-dark, knees drawn to my chest, quietly gathering up the pasta that he’s made me. No wine. Probably an unwise choice, given the cacophony of painkillers I’ve taken.

But mint ice cream seems quite medicinal in this moment.

The bowl he carries up the stairs to me is generous. I can’t bring myself to worry. I want the damn ice cream. I’m going to enjoy every mouthful.

He pulls me gently onto his lap to eat it - nearly naked, though he’s fully dressed. His hands are cold from where they’ve handled the tub. They wrap protectively around me, and cradle me, and he strokes gently at my bare thighs as I lean against his chest and spoon mint and cream and dark chocolate into my mouth, feeling my heart glow with quiet, painful peace.

“Should we get you to a doctor, gorgeous?” he murmurs against my forehead. He kisses my pounding temple with care. “I know you tried before, but… I’ll be here to support you this time. We’ll take you straight to a specialist. Someone who knows what they’re on about. Hell, I’ll come with you to the appointments if you want…”

His arms gently tighten.

“Just don’t want to find you in this state again,” he mumbles.

I don’t want him to find me this way, either. I nestle into him, shutting my eyes, letting go. He’s warm beneath his cotton shirt, and smells of the aftershave I bought him for his birthday.

“Sometimes I wish we lived together, Myc.” He pulls the covers up around me, hiding me away. “You - don’t do well when I’m gone, gorgeous. M'sorry. Just seems like without me, you forget that you’re worth even feeding. If I was here, I could… I dunno, remind you that - …” He sighs, squeezing me. “Sorry, love. Pushing. I… care about you, that’s all.”

He is right - as usual.

Utterly right.

I have neglected myself on every possible count today. I have treated myself appallingly all week; I’ve denied myself everything that I need to function, let alone those things that might even stand some chance of making me happy.

As my headache thumps softly - now subdued, and burnt low - I make a conscious decision to give myself a long overdue kindness… to permit myself something I would very, very much like.

I look up into his eyes, feeling my heart squeeze.

He gazes back at me with love.

The next day, my apologies are given at the cabinet meeting. I am ill, and only expected to return to work next week. All matters of importance can be directed to my assistant until I am well again.

I spend the days resting - and helping Greg to move in.

 


	16. "Bit more salt."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes it up to Greg.

Things weren’t great on Monday.

Mycroft had worked all weekend - _’international importance’,_ as usual - and Greg did the supermarket shop on his own, dully adding things to the trolley while wondering if his partner would even be home to eat them. 

Then, on Tuesday, they had The Fight.

It wasn’t their official anniversary, which is in April - but it  _was_  the day they’d met - and shouldn’t that mean something? Wasn’t it at least worth coming home before nine? 

Greg said things he didn’t mean (“What’s the point of me even sticking around then, Mycroft? Why am I even  _here?”)_ and Mycroft got quieter and quieter until he blew, in his customary fashion.

They shouted at each other until it was Wednesday. 

They were too tired for angry sex, or even make-up sex. They just cuddled in bed, whispering their sorries in the dark. Mycroft’s brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them tears were a secret only Greg ever saw, and Greg almost wrote them off as exhaustion - but then Mycroft held him so tightly his hands shook on Greg’s back, and he whispered against Greg’s shoulder, “Please,  _please_  don’t ever say things like that…” - and Greg cried, too.

It was undignified; it was a mess.

But it was what they needed.

Greg got up for work at five AM, shattered. Mycroft could have slept in - but got up with him anyway, just to eat toast in the kitchen together.

Just after lunch, Greg received an email on his phone. 

Forwarded confirmation of train tickets. Two adult returns to Bath - heading out Saturday morning, home late on Monday. A few minutes later, the hotel reservation came through. The same place they’d had their first weekend away. The same suite. Greg remembered every moment of it.

Non-refundable.

Now it’s Friday, and Greg breezes through work. It all glances off him. He’s too bright to be darkened. He’s out of the door at a minute past five and takes the stairs, not the lift, grinning and letting his coat swirl as he rounds each corner, two steps away from breaking into a skip. 

He drives home with the radio on. The music’s infectious today - he’s not usually a pop sort of guy, but right now the catchy tunes and the bubbly vocals are the sound of his heart. He doesn’t know half these songs, but he sings along with the obvious bits. Other drivers on the road seem happy too. 

At home, Greg puts the radio on to wash up. 

Usually he’s nervous about making an effort with dinner - it’s the fastest way to guarantee himself a text saying,  _Apologies, unexpected delay. Will be home 10pm latest._

But today, he wants to make it special.

He starts on a veggie parmigiana - courgette and aubergine, plenty of garlic and mozzarella. He can’t remember who told him to try tossing the rocket in lemon and olive oil, but he remembers the look on Mycroft’s face the first time he served this. He used to make fun of vegetarians - ‘rabbit food’. Then he fell in love with one. It started out as a game, trying to impress Mycroft. Now it’s another way to say _I love you._

As he’s tasting and seasoning the sauce, something familiar comes on the radio - something breezy, a happy beat and snapping fingers, idle and bright and full of Friday night. It’s the sound of a smile. 

Beyonce. Greg recognises her voice, even before he’s humming along - but it takes him until the chorus to get it.

 

 _Baby it’s you_  
_You’re the one I love_  
_You’re the one I need_  
_You’re the only one I see_  
_Come on baby it’s you_  
_You’re the one that gives your all_  
_You’re the one I can always call_  
_When I need to make everything stop_  
_Finally you put my love on top_

  
  
By the time he’s tearing up basil leaves and mozzarella, Greg’s dancing in place by the counter - singing, even though he can’t. It’s impossible to resist belting it out. That beat, those steps in pitch, the way her voice brims with everything she’s singing. 

 _Beyonce’s made parmigiana on a Friday night while in love_ , he thinks - excited about her upcoming weekend break. She knows how this feels.

He casts breadcrumbs across the tray like it’s magic dust, then he’s grating parmesan in time to the beat, twisting in place in his mismatched socks on the kitchen floor. He’s singing along with her and missing every pitch-rise, but  _fuck,_  it feels good to sing badly, and under the grill all the veg goes. It’s going to be perfect.

Lemon juice, olive oil and seasoning - into the glass bowl he tugs from under the sink.

 

 _Now everybody ask me why I’m smiling out from ear to ear_  
_(They say love hurts)_  
_And I know_  
_(It’s gonna take a little work)_  
_Nothing’s perfect but it’s worth it_  
_After fighting through my tears_  
_Finally you put me first_

 

Greg swirls the rocket, singing to it. It’s going to be the happiest rocket side salad that was ever made. He tastes a bit of it, singing around the spiky mouthful of green. It’s good - but he can make it better. He whirls around for the seasalt on a high note, a dramatic Beyonce-style spin with a little kick of one foot.

Mycroft’s standing in the kitchen door.

Six PM, on the dot. Like he promised. Still in his coat, still holding his briefcase.

He’s smiling like he’s just fallen in love all over again.

Greg curls the errant rocket into his mouth with his tongue. He coughs, and says, “Bit more salt.”

Mycroft puts his briefcase down. He crosses the kitchen, takes the bowl from Greg, and moves it aside. 

As Beyonce hits her final chorus, Greg hits the fridge. 

Mycroft pins him into place, takes his face in leather-gloved hands, and kisses him until all the magnets hit the lino.

 


	17. "Please, I - I just need to think."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days before their wedding, Mycroft disappears to be alone. Twenty years later, he tells his husband why.

Eleven days before the wedding, Mycroft sits Greg down at the table and tells him.

At first Greg isn’t sure what he’s hearing.

“Ten days? Why? We’re - we’re meant to be getting _married._  Why would you do this?”

Mycroft grips his hands, pale and afraid. “I - have to, Greg. Please, I - I just need to think.”

“Oh - oh, fuck. _No._ Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do this to me, ten days before we - … it’s taken us _seven years_  to get here, Myc. Seven _fucking_ years. We’ve - we’ve nearly - oh, _Christ..."_

Over the course of an hour, Mycroft calms him down - reassures him - swears to him, on every star in the sky, that he wants to marry Greg. Truly, he does. He wants it with all his heart. He wants to spend their lives together, and nothing’s changed. Of that, Mycroft’s sure.

He just needs these last ten days to be alone.

Greg asks why - a hundred times.

A hundred times, Mycroft can’t explain.

“I’ll come home the day before,” Mycroft says - tear-stricken on the couch together, arms around each other. Greg has never felt so alone in his life. “I promise. I promise you I’ll be there.”

In the end, Greg feels like he has no choice.

He can’t bring himself to see Mycroft off that night. He doesn’t go to the airport. He sits at home instead and cries, texting Mycroft that he’s fine.

It’s a lonely and awful ten days. Every possible worry goes through Greg’s mind, every minute of the day - that there’s someone else, some old lover Mycroft needs to be with one last time; that it’s cold-feet; that it’s Greg, that it’s his fault somehow, that he’s done something wrong and their seven years of easy happiness are about to come to nothing, and he’ll never even get to hear why.

He finds himself finalising plans for a wedding that he isn’t sure will happen. Everyone keeps asking if he’s excited. He tells them Mycroft is working away in Asia, getting some vital matters out of the way ahead of their month-long honeymoon to Canada - which he’s no longer even sure they'll be going on. He can’t bring himself to tell anyone the truth. He can’t think. He can’t sleep.

The day before the wedding, he gets a text early in the morning.

Flight details; time of arrival at Heathrow. _I love you with every fraction of my soul._

Mycroft has never said something like that before.

Even when they decided to spend forever together.

It gives Greg the strength to get through the final day.

He’s there at the terminal hours before he needs to be. He only cries once, when he sees that the plane has landed. Otherwise he waits, and he paces, and he shakes to himself in silence, and at one point he nearly throws up - but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to miss seeing Mycroft arrive.

When Mycroft finally comes through the gate, and sees his fiance waiting across the terminal, he breaks into a run.

“I love you. I love you, _I love you.”_ Mycroft gasps it against Greg's forehead, clinging to him. Greg cries into his neck as people stare. He can’t stop. “I love you to my last breath. I love you beyond my entire existence. Marry me. _Marry me,_ Greg. For God’s sake.”

They spend half the night crying, half the night making love. Mycroft doesn’t tell Greg where he’s been - but swears to him that he was alone for all ten days, and thought of nobody but Greg - that their whole life is ahead of them, and they’ll never be parted again. It isn’t why he left, but in the course of it, Mycroft has decided to scale back his dedication to his work. He'll begin the lengthy process of lessening his involvement in so many matters - concentrate on just a few; leave the rest of the time for Greg.

For his husband.

His life partner. 

Their married life begins in the morning. As Greg walks into the registry office, his fears have eased and he’s at peace. Mycroft is brought to tears as rings are exchanged. He says his vows from memory, looking into Greg’s eyes, and he means every word. Nobody leaves the room dry-eyed. Greg doesn’t let go of his hand all day.

By the time they’ve returned from Canada, those ten unhappy days have fogged into memory.

 

* * *

 

Twenty years later, on the morning of their anniversary, Mycroft gives his husband a gift. His fingers shake as he hands them over: a bundle of letters, knotted with a lavender silk ribbon.

Greg bursts into tears when he realises when they were written.

Mycroft holds him and reassures him, and begs him to read every word - not to stop - to read right through until the end. He promises Greg he’ll be here when he’s finished. He’ll _always_ be here.

It takes Greg most of the day.

The south of France; a cottage belonging to Mycroft’s great-grandmother. Mycroft had arrived to find the electrics no longer in any state of function - and so for the first three days, he wrote by candlelight.

Memories. Wishes.

What had come before - what might lie ahead.

Mycroft’s soul had woven these pages from its own fabric.

Greg was halfway through before he realised what it was.

Mycroft _had_ doubted. He'd been afraid. A lifetime of commitment - a sacred vow - and could they really give each other what was needed to sustain it? What if things changed? Could Mycroft really make that vow, full of fear for what would happen if it was ever broken? He knew he wouldn’t survive a fallen marriage - not in any recognisable form of himself. He wouldn’t be able to live with that loss.

Was it safer just not to risk?

Greg read every word through blinding tears. He walked with Mycroft’s soul for every moment of the ten days it had sat alone in a room by itself, following Mycroft’s every thought, feeling his every fear - laughing in tears at the small memories that he'd thought were gone to time - crying afresh each time Mycroft’s handwriting wished him goodnight.

Mycroft had felt guilty for every hour he’d been gone. _“I have to be sure,”_ he wrote, over and over. _“I can’t bear to go ahead until I’m sure. I couldn't do that to you.”_

By the final letter, Mycroft had written his way to peace.

The ten days without Greg had been the worst of the past seven years. The conclusion was inescapable, and it was eternal. He had walked through the shadows, and returned holding light.

 

_The truth is that I can't live without you. I’m so afraid that it might end - but that's no reason not to let it begin._

_I will make you happy, Greg. So happy you'll never have even the smallest cause to leave. We'll be together, always. I will make our marriage my greatest treasure, and everything else will come in time. If we grow, we'll grow together; if we change, I'll cherish the chance to fall in love with you all over again._

_I want to be with you every day._

_And that is enough._

_Two days until our wedding. Two short days. I miss you so much in this moment that I can’t comprehend a future where I’ll ever do anything but marry you - again and again, everyday. Forged brand new each morning._

_I love you._

_I promise that I'll love you when doing so is difficult. I'll never leave you. If it takes work, darling, I'll make it work. The rest of my days will be yours._

_I've made my choice, Greg._

 

When Greg emerges from the bedroom, his husband of twenty years is waiting outside on the landing. He’s pale, and shaking with tears.

Greg folds him at once into his arms.

They spend half the night crying; they spend half the night making love.

Two weeks later, they renew their wedding vows and leave for a long summer in the south of France. They walk the countryside together until autumn has come - talking, remembering, hand-in-hand in the softening light of the sun.

Greg spends each sunset lighting candles.

He wakes every morning in the arms of the man who chose him.

 


	18. "How d'you know it was me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie Watson has picked up some choice new vocabulary - and there's a single prime suspect.

It was upon John Watson's birthday that the incident occurred.

Mycroft had offered to take his brother and John for Sunday lunch at a country pub in Beaconsfield - a fond gesture, in honour of the recent pleasantness between himself and Sherlock. His brother's new-found paternal inclinations had done him credit. Relations had been excellent since Rosamund's birth, and Mycroft was eager for it to continue.

He'd even been entrusted with his niece's care once a week - Tuesday evenings at Uncle Mycroft's house. He'd initially taken on the responsibility with some small amount of concern, but now found it by far one of the most pleasant parts of his week. Rosamund was a charming child, quick and headstrong; her addition to their lives was very much worth celebrating.

The country pub to which they were going had a deservedly excellent reputation - a cosy inn, comfortably out of the way, with a selection of ales that varied colourfully from week-to-week.

They had a children's menu for Rosamund, too. Now three, Mycroft's niece was very selective in her tastes. She'd picked up Sherlock's tendency to insist upon things with some vigour.

Sadly, she'd picked up a few other things as well.

Just as they were leaving for the pub, as Sherlock carefully fastened her into her puffy purple coat, the toy elephant she was intent on taking slipped from her tiny grasp. It hit the floor with a clunk, at which point its head became sadly dislodged from its body.

Rosamund looked down at it - and in a clear and exasperated voice, sighed,

"Fuckin' 'ell."

Mycroft nearly swallowed his tongue.

John spat out the mouthful of cold coffee he'd been finishing, while Sherlock blinked in staggered astonishment.

A loud, delighted laugh sounded from the stairs. _"Brilliant."_

Sherlock recovered his senses first. As he fitted Rosie's elephant back together for her, flushing, he called,

"I'm not sure _'brilliant'_ is the correct response to the situation, Lestrade!"

"Are you kidding?" said Greg. He reappeared in the sitting room, holding his car keys and grinning from ear-to-ear. "That was _fantastic._ I wish we'd been filming it... Christ, I'm gonna treasure that forever..."

"And what other 'fantastic' vocabulary have you taught our three-year-old, might I ask?" Sherlock demanded, annoyed.

Greg gave him a startled look. "How d'you know it was me?"

Sherlock scoffed. "The London accent was a fairly reliable clue, for a start. And need we mention your proclivity for bad language?"

"Whoa, whoa..." Greg held up his hands. "Steady on. London accent? She said two words, mate. You can't judge accent from that. And I hardly ever babysit her, do I? Once in a blue moon. My hands are clean in this."

"And who else do you suggest would have taught her that _particular_ turn of phrase?" Sherlock asked him, furious.

Mycroft drew a silent breath.

Greg held Sherlock's gaze for a few seconds. He thought about it, poking his tongue into his cheek.

Then he said,

"Alright... it was me. Slipped out a few weeks ago - stubbed my toe on the door - I didn't think she'd heard me."

"Well, clearly she _did,"_ said Sherlock. "And now our toddler has the lexical inclinations of a docker. She's only just mastered the simple past tense, Lestrade. Now you've enlightened her in the fine art of profanity."

"Right... sorry, Sherlock. Sorry, John - I'll get my mouth washed out with soap when we get to the pub."

"See that you do," Sherlock snapped, hoisting Rosie up into his arms. "I _knew_ you would be a poor influence. Your irresponsibility staggers me. Perhaps you could try following Mycroft's example more closely? At least she has _one_ suitable role model..."

He swept out onto the landing, head held high.

John, fighting a smile tooth-and-nail, gave Greg a look of mock severity, then followed.

In the silence that followed, Mycroft screwed his toes tightly into his shoes. He'd somehow managed not to blush. It now came flooding forth, flashing across his face as he watched Lestrade turn to him slowly.

Greg raised both eyebrows, and waited.

Mycroft bit down into his lip. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Greg couldn't hold in a grin.

"You owe me," he said. _"Big time."_

"Entirely understandable."

"Wouldn't do for them to discover that responsible Uncle Mycroft has been enlightening Miss Rosie in 'the fine art of profanity', would it?"

 _Oh, dear lord._ Mycroft's insides squirmed.

"I knew that she'd _heard,"_ he said, pained. "But I truly didn't think she'd remember... heaven help me, it was weeks ago..."

"What happened?"

"I only stepped into my study for a moment to monitor my e-mails... I found a message to say a junior clerk had wiped a critical file, and somehow wiped the back-ups as well. I was - naturally somewhat _annoyed..._ then, when I turned around, I discovered Rosamund had followed me... she presumably heard my... ah, outburst."

"And picked up some choice new words, huh?" Greg hooked his thumbs into his belt, amused. "Well, Mycroft... that's what happens when you're a 'suitable role model'..."

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft said. "I  should have revealed myself. It was wicked of me to let you... it's just been very pleasant, to be getting on so well with Sherlock after all these years - and Rosamund is very dear to me, and I'd hate to - "

"Oi," Greg interrupted, soft. His eyes sparkled. "S'fine. I don't mind. Uncle Greg can take the fall on this one. John's clearly not that fussed... I'll just buy him a pint at the pub. Problem solved."

Mycroft's flush deepened. "And I shall buy you one," he said.

Greg winked.

"Buy me one next week," he said. "When we're there on our own. I need a clear head today, if I'm gonna act like I've never seen the place before." He shook his head, grinning. "All these lies I keep up for you, Holmes..."

Mycroft's heart squeezed happily.

"I'm very grateful for your trouble, _Lestrade."_

Greg's eyes shone across the room at him, deep and playful and dark.

"C'mon," Greg said. He jangled his car keys. "Let's see if you can act like you've never seen the back-seat of my car."

 


	19. "You're full of surprises."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's secret nipple piercing picks up a new admirer.

Mycroft always imagined the sight of Greg's chest would short-circuit his brain, but not for this reason. As he blinks down at the tiny ring of silver nestled amidst the dark thatch of hair, his mouth opens of its own volition.

Greg grins a little, waiting.

" - yes?" he tries, sprawled on his back on Mycroft's couch with his shirt pulled open across his chest. The candlelight catches on the ring as he stirs. "No?"

Mycroft finds words at last.

"I - I hadn't realised you have..." He flushes, wondering why the nipple piercing intrigues him so. He immediately wants to touch it with his tongue - soft, sensitive flesh and smooth silver. "You’re _full_ of surprises."

Greg bites his lip. "Are you okay with it?"

"O-Of course. I have no objection." _Can it be tugged?_ Mycroft thinks. _Gently, perhaps. Experimentally._ He wonders what that would feel like for Greg. "How long have you had...?"

"I, ah... was seventeen. Wish I could claim 'wild youth', but I don't really regret it."

Mycroft's heart stirs. "No?"

"No." He watches Greg's eyes brighten, fond and soft. "'Specially if you're good with it."

A shiver slides down Mycroft’s back. "I believe I am," he says.

Greg pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

"Good news for when you take my jeans off, beautiful."

 


	20. "I didn't think you'd be interested."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A texting disaster turns out surprisingly well.

_FOR SALE: antique carriage clock £100  
_

_Great condition “Woodford” clock. Well looked after, original finish. Had it professionally serviced so its in perfect working order. Valued by a mate at £250 but looking for quick sale. Weighs 1kg so collect in person please (east london but I can meet you central if it’s easier). Any questions welcome. Please text greg lestrade on the following number._

 

_*_

 

**[12:04] Hello inspector. It’s Mycroft Holmes. I wondered if your cock is still available? I’d be very interested, if it is. MH**

[12:06] wow! Hi :) you don’t mess around do you? sure, it’s… available ;)

**[12:06] Ah, good. I’m glad. MH**

[12:06] I didnt think you’d be interested…? you should have told me :) x

**[12:08] I’m something of a collector. Obviously I’d prefer to have a look first, if that suits you. MH**

[12:09] a collector?? blimey :) you’re a dark horse holmes. Erm… do you mean like… a photo…?? x

**[12:10] In person would be preferable. (“A dark horse”?) A photograph for now would be appreciated. MH**

[12:12] christ. Well… finish work at 6pm if you want to get a drink maybe? :) until then… guess a preview can’t hurt ;)

_[IMG_0921.jpg - ATTACHED]_

**[12:13] Inspector!!!!!!!!!!!!**

[12:13] approve? ;) x

**[12:14] The CLOCK!! The clock, the carriage clock in this week’s newspaper!! For god’s sake I meant clock!**

[12:14] OH JESUS ARE YOU KIDDING ME

 

*

 

[23:12] hey… its me :(

[23:16] still really sorry about earlier. You were good to meet me and I know you said its fine but I can’t stop thinking about it. probably shouldnt be making this worse for myself but honestly, kinda used to fancy you a bit. Guess I jumped at the chance :( Sorry. ugh.

[23:17] ok I’m maybe a bit drunk too… sorry though :( xx

[23:39] Yikes… hey just delete these texts? Can we pretend this didnt happen xx

[23:42] I dont fancy you these days, I was kidding. please don’t be weird near me :(

[23:43] shit shit shit…

 

*

 

**[11:01] Good morning. I hope you don’t mind that I waited to reply. I didn’t wish to further your embarrassment last night… and in truth I’d like to speak candidly with you. MH**

**[11:03] You needn’t worry I will ‘be weird near you’. A harmless error, as I explained yesterday. Rest assured, you are far more embarrassed about the matter than I am. And far more than you need to be. MH**

**[11:04] I should add I have no intention of telling anyone about our miscommunication. I’ve also deleted the accidental image. MH**

**[11:05] As to your… feelings, regarding me… MH**

**[11:07] I confess that when we first met, I too was very aware of you. I’ve always appreciated your support in matters of Sherlock. And I’d be distressed if this small accident affected your opinion of me. MH**

[11:09] what do you mean… “aware of me”…? x

**[11:10] I’ll take it as read that your previous attraction to me is no longer current… in which case, I was attracted to you, too. Quite strongly. MH**

[11:10] holy shit… wait… are you still? x

**[11:12] Would that be unwelcome? MH**

[11:12] no. no not at all… x

**[11:13] Perhaps we could meet for coffee. MH x**

[11:14] holy fuck. please. Today? xx

**[11:16] Now, if you wish. MH x**

[11:16] where? xx

**[11:17] Are you familiar with Caffe Grana near St James? I’d gladly meet you there. MH x**

[11:18] right. I’ll get my coat. see you there then…  and we’ll talk :) xx

**[11:19] Gregory? MH x**

[11:21] yeah? :) xx

**[11:22] I’m still interested in the cLock. MH x**

[11:24] really?? even if it’ll remind you of…? xx

**[11:25] Mm. Think I want it more now. MH x**

 


	21. "Thank you, darlin'."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosiness at the weekend.

Greg rubs his thumb idly along the side of the tablet, his gaze trailing from number to number across the screen. He should’ve known better than to try a difficult one after a huge lunch. The gorgeous country pub had offered a number of very drinkable real ales, and it’s tricky enough staying awake right now, let alone attempting sudoku.

But this is what they do on Sunday, and the quiet feels as restful as sleep. Greg’s head rests comfortably on Mycroft’s chest. The joy of a large couch is that a few extra cushions and a fleece blanket turn it into a bed, and the two of them can lie here in the sunshine streaming through the French windows, empty tea mugs on the coffee table, a plate of digestive biscuits to work through. Mycroft is quietly absorbed in a Henry James novel, peering over his reading glasses at the weathered paperback. Greg is torn between the half hour he’s now invested into this puzzle, and starting again with an easier one.

As Mycroft’s fingers stray through his hair, carding gently through the silvering strands, Greg smiles a little and sighs.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Help. What have I done wrong?”

Mycroft’s mouth curves. Without taking his eyes from his book, he says, “I’d rethink that eight, if I were you. Bottom right.”

Greg studies it. After a moment he spots a second eight in the same column, and with a grin taps the screen to erase his mistake.

“Thank you, darlin’.”

“Not at all.”

Reaching for a digestive from the plate, Greg snaps it gently in half. “Thank you for only saying when I ask.”

Mycroft’s eyes pull away from the page. They flicker with a smile into Greg’s, amused as his husband offers him half the biscuit.

“Puzzles are never truly about the solution,” he remarks, takes the biscuit between his teeth, and crunches it contentedly as he turns his page. “They are about the solving.”

 


	22. "Demands of the job."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly losing Greg in a shooting helps Mycroft realise what matters most.

Seven days after the shooting, Mr Lestrade was discharged into private medical care. He was collected from the hospital by a specialist team, who needed no help in transporting him. Everything was done with breathtaking efficiency; the nurses who’d looked after Greg for that vital first week were left in no doubt.

He would be in safe hands from here on.

 

*

 

Mycroft had informed the relevant authorities within hours that he was now to be considered out of contact. For years, both the country’s civil service and military intelligence had grown used to having his advice close at hand. He was only ever a few discreet emails away - but they would now have to learn to live without him.

This incident had revealed to him his priorities.

In the agonising hours after the news of the shooting broke, as he waited in terror for an update on Greg’s surgery, one single thought had resounded through his head.

_Live._

_Live, and I shall change._

No more cancelled dinner dates. No more postponed weekends away. No more relying on Greg always being here, always patient and understanding, always ready with a smile to say, _“S’fine, gorgeous. Demands of the job. We’ll catch each other next week.”_

The truth was that nothing in life was ever certain, and it all might have ended one overcast Tuesday afternoon. Greg had been responding to an emergency call from a younger officer; it hadn’t even been his case. Surrounded on all sides, the cornered perpetrator had opened fire on the nearest officer: Greg. He claimed he’d just been trying to scare Greg, claimed he hadn’t realised the gun was loaded, claimed he hadn’t realised the safety catch was off, claimed it wasn’t his gun, claimed he hadn’t been aiming for Greg...

He’d claimed all manner of things - and Mycroft didn’t care.

He’d nearly claimed Greg’s life.

 

*

 

The guest bedroom in the north wing was converted into a sickroom. No guest had ever used it during Mycroft’s ownership of the house. It had never been needed before. Its larger windows would let in plenty of light and air, and made it a more cheerful space to spend weeks in recovery, overlooking the grounds and the woods. A private nurse would be able to sleep just down the corridor, reachable at any time of the day or night with the press of a button.

At first, Mycroft assumed he would remain in his own room in the south wing. He thought Greg would need the space to recover; he would wish to be alone, to rest and heal.

Then came the first night, and Greg’s distress at the thought of being left. His dosage of painkillers was already high; the nurse didn’t dare to risk any more. He was fretful and in pain, tears never far, and Mycroft couldn’t bear to let go of him. He laid in the bed with Greg and held him in his arms, crying silently with him, stroking his hair. _I almost lost you. You were almost taken from me._

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to return to his own room.

He stayed with Greg throughout the night, barely sleeping. He wanted to be there each time Greg awoke - there to soothe him and hush him gently, make sure he drank a little water. If he couldn’t ease Greg’s pain, he would witness it. He would be here for every moment of it.

A little after three AM, as he cradled Greg in the darkness and gently dried his tears as he wept, Greg whimpered that he loved Mycroft.

It was the first time they’d said the words.

Mycroft had known, of course.

He’d realised he loved Greg in the very moment a voice on the end of a phone told him Greg had been involved in an incident, and asked him to come to the hospital immediately.

Their association had covered a span of nearly three years - friendship, flirtation, courtship and care, sex and sentiment and distress, emotions Mycroft hadn’t even known how to process. The depth of Greg’s affection sometimes seemed to blow his every circuit. He hadn’t understood why Greg cared for him, him of _all_ people, why Greg liked him, why he persevered each time Mycroft drove him away.

The years had rolled by, and always seemed to bring them back to one place: the two of them together, quiet and happy. As long as Mycroft could keep himself from over-thinking, nothing in the world was ever wrong.

Now it had led them here, and Greg loved him.

Mycroft loved Greg, too.

 

*

 

Recovery was slow. Greg had been lucky in some ways, but not in others.

Mycroft stayed by his side everyday.

He slept at Greg’s side every night, and the two of them went weeks without being parted. When Greg showered, Mycroft showered with him; when Greg had visitors, he wanted Mycroft to stay in the room and sit close. In the night, when the pain was bad and he couldn’t sleep, Mycroft read to him quietly and stroked through his hair. In the day, they sat by the window together and talked, sharing every last detail of their lives, every thought they’d ever had.

By the time Greg was able to walk again, and he could move from the sickroom up to the master bedroom with Mycroft, they both knew a decision had been made.

A soft conversation was shared, lying in Mycroft’s bed that first night. Mycroft never knew if he had proposed to Greg, or Greg to him - but he knew it didn’t matter. There was no question anymore about whether they belonged to each other. The wedding would be quiet and simple, conducted sooner rather than later, and this would be their home. If Greg wished to return to work, it would be as Gregory Holmes-Lestrade.

Mycroft would love him, and look after him, every single day of their lives.

 


	23. "And now we've come this far."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing Greg loves more than Mycroft's laugh.

It takes a lot to get Mycroft to laugh - but when he does, he  _laughs._

They’re practically living together before Greg even sees it happen. One Friday night with the weekend ahead of them, they end up lying on the couch beneath Mycroft’s winter blanket together, watching Blackadder in the dark with a bottle of red wine. They have nowhere to be in the morning; the bottle soon empties itself. Greg digs a pint of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer. He feeds it to Mycroft with a teaspoon as Mycroft lies comfortably against his chest, watching the TV with a gorgeous little smirk on his face. By the time they reach the middle of series two, his snorts of amusement are cracking open into unguarded chuckles. He gets ten minutes into the fifth episode before it’s all over for Mycroft and he’s laughing helplessly against Greg’s chest, barely able to breathe. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. He’s shaking, collapsing into more laughter each time he tries to get a hold of himself. His helpless amusement and distress set Greg off too. They have to stop the DVD just to breathe, their sides now hurting from the laughter. Mycroft is a mess. He tries desperately to wipe his face, but the helpless tears keep on coming.

Greg already knew he loved Mycroft.

He just didn’t realise how much.

He’s seen his lover climax maybe a hundred times now. He’s seen Mycroft so tired he can barely function, seen him so angry he can’t speak, seen him close to tears of frustration and worry over Sherlock - but never laughing like this. He loves Mycroft’s seriousness and he always will. He loves that every word Mycroft says, he means. It makes their bond feel so secure and authentic and real it takes Greg’s breath sometimes.

But it’s amazing to see him laugh.

As they tidy Mycroft up, drying his flushed face on the blanket, he still shudders with helpless little chuckles and occasionally creases again. Greg wonders if anyone on the planet has ever seen him like this. He doubts it. From what Sherlock says, Mycroft left the family home for Cambridge at eighteen years old and lived alone ever since, as solitary as an oyster. If left to his own devices, Mycroft works or he goes to his treadmill. It’s Greg who taught him the joys of sofa, wine and boxset on a Friday night. 

 _And now we’ve come this far,_ he thinks, grinning and kissing Mycroft’s cheeks to comfort him.

Exhausted by laughter, Mycroft just wants to be cuddled - it’s as if all his barriers have fallen into glittering glass shards. The loveliest fifteen minutes of Greg’s life begin to pass, stroking Mycroft’s hair and making soothing noises to him, trying not to set the poor bastard off again. Mycroft might pass out if he laughs anymore. 

They make it to the end of the series somehow, still giggling drunkenly together and finishing off the ice cream. Mycroft doesn’t protest as Greg scoops him up. He holds onto Greg, smiling, and lets Greg carry him off to bed. The sex - always good - is incredible tonight. Mycroft is almost playful, guiding Greg’s hands wherever he needs them, vocal and eager and at every stage wanting to kiss. Something about laughing together like idiots has left Greg feeling so  _real_  and so happy and in love that he wishes they could go all night. By the time they’re settling down to sleep together, pink-cheeked and grinning, tired to the bone, Greg has half a mind to buy a ring. He can’t remember the last time he had such a wonderful evening. He’ll cherish this memory all his life.

The next day, they drive out to a country pub for lunch. They spend the afternoon walking it off, rambling together happily through the countryside with their phones on silent and the autumn leaves thick around their ankles. Back home with tea and the evening news, Mycroft slides over to cuddle on the sofa - and asks Greg, hopefully, if he’s happy in their relationship - if he’s happy here with Mycroft.

Greg pulls him close, and kisses him, and tells him he wouldn’t change things for the world.

 


End file.
